#cursed geralt

However inevitable Jaskier’s rejection—and his rage—will be, Geralt has to know. He has to ask, and he chastises himself like he would a child as he wanders the bustling city. You don’t get if you don’t ask.

A half-formed apology is playing around his mind. Geralt has never been good with words, certainly not as good as Jaskier, and he needs to find the ones that will convince him he’s worth it; that will win his help.

But not just that. Not just his help, like Geralt is bartering his trade, like he’s a Lord demanding Jaskier play him a tune at a banquet.

It’s been nearly two years since he last saw the bard, and it’s taken him nearly half of that time to realise that the leaden weight that’s sunk around his chest is a heavy sort of grief. He misses Jaskier; misses his singing and his humming, misses his ridiculous clothes and unsuitable footwear. He misses how he’d charm landlords into giving them extra food or larger rooms, the way he’d spin lies to convince spendthrift aldermen to pay Geralt what he was owed, not what they wanted to pay.

He misses the way Jaskier’s face cracked into a blinding smile during a particularly good set. He misses the way he mumbled over rhymes when he was trying to work out new lyrics, his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth as he scribbled them down. He misses the way Jaskier curled around him when they shared a bed or a bedroll, the noises he made in his sleep, the way he never balked, not once, at the prospect of waking up with his limbs tangled around those of a witcher.

He misses his scent, all ink and parchment and oils; chamomile in the evenings, lavender in winter, orange blossom in spring. He misses the sound of his heartbeat. He can still tap out the rhythm of it; he memorised it two decades ago.

Geralt has had a lot of time to think, these past twenty-four months. He’s had a lot of time to think about himself, about the way he thinks, about the emotions he’s tried to bury and push down since he was old enough to know he was feeling them.

Touching them—acknowledging them—is like poking at a tender bruise, or binding a wound. It hurts, but it hurts because he’s alive; because he’s healing.

He’s re-learning himself, starting from scratch, but fuck; he cannot indulge in it too much. Especially not now; not like this. The hot ache in his chest that flares when he thinks of Jaskier is his problem, and his alone. No doubt any feelings Jaskier once had for him—friendly or more than—have been effectively extinguished by Geralt’s own careless words and two years to stew on them.

Jaskier carries grudges, Geralt knows. He’s likely just the latest weight for him to carry, heaved onto his shoulders like it’s nothing at all.

He’ll find Jaskier and apologise and then, only afterwards, will he ask for his help. He’ll beg, if he has to. But Jaskier doesn’t need to know the rest. He doesn’t need to know that the smell of parchment still makes Geralt’s lungs constrict, or that he finds himself mindlessly knocking out the drumbeat rhythm of Jaskier’s pulse—tap-a, tap-a, tap-a—when the road is too quiet and the silence presses down on him.

He pushes those thoughts from his mind. It doesn’t do to dwell, after all, and pressing at the bruise will only make the pain flare worse, healing or not. He can ruminate later, when Jaskier is by his side.

If Jaskier is by his side.

It’s such a fragile thing; and he doesn't even have it yet.

But before all of that—before an apology and grovelling and pleading and pushing aside his pride—he needs to fucking find him. Novigrad is enormous, and he could be anywhere; especially considering how Nilfgaard has spies even this far north. He could be in hiding; his friend at the academy had never specified if he was still even playing music. Maybe the bard—his bard—isn’t a bard any more.

It’s a difficult balance to tread; Geralt can’t simply go around taverns and inns demanding if anyone has seen Jaskier if he is indeed in hiding. He may even be going by a different name, and in any case, the sudden appearance of Geralt of Rivia asking leading questions could land Jaskier in even more danger.

He’ll have to play it slow. He’ll visit the largest taverns and brothels first, asking not for Jaskier but for musicians, following trails and keeping low to the ground. With any luck, he’ll recognise a song—or even the distinctive twang of Filavandrel’s lute—and that will lead him the right way. It’s not a great plan, nor is it a good plan, but it’s all he has. Once he’s centred in the city and used to the sensory bombardment again, he’ll be in a better position to come up with something a little more solid. All he needs is—

There’s a whisper behind him. His head squeezes unpleasantly. There’s an icicle down his back, freezing his nervous system, tingling to his fingertips.

Fuck.

Everything goes black.

~

“A good try, witcher.”

Geralt’s skin is on fire. He’s on his back, lying against something cold and hard, but he can’t open his eyes.

“Good, but not good enough. Walking into Novigrad so unprepared—such pride! Such foolishness. What did you think would happen?”

Something is wrong in a squirming, bone-deep way. Pain suddenly flares through Geralt’s limbs, across his face, down his back. His body constricts in on itself, but he’s tied down and there are chains around his wrists and ankles and he’s trapped, he’s trapped and he can’t even struggle—

“I saw what you did to the others. The ones who caught you, or nearly caught you. I will not be taking that risk.”

The medallion is bouncing wildly against Geralt’s chest. His amour, which had been tightly buckled over his shoulders and sides, feels like it no longer fits. His skin feels tight and dry, like old fruit, like aged leather. His hands form fists at his side and his toes curl in his boots and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

He tries to yell out but his voice is gone, and all the noise he can make is a choking, pitchy gasp.

There’s a laugh from somewhere far away; from right next to his ear.

“Struggle all you want, witcher. It won’t work.”

The disembodied voice is too loud, now. It fills the room, echoing. Geralt’s hearing has always been good, but now it's pin-prick sharp.

Footsteps. Breathing. A heartbeat. The soft shff of fabric.

Geralt can’t move. His arms are stiff, his swords are gone, his signs are useless. With more effort than he knows he has left, he opens his eyes.

He sees a hand. He acts instinctively, barely even thinking.

He bites.

The voice—the mage—swears.

For a moment Geralt is flying, stomach lurching, ears ringing. The floor comes up to meet him, or he meets it.

He lands on his feet, and he runs.

~

Jaskier watches the shaft of dust-speckled light move across the floor of his cell. When it reaches the third crack in the second floorboard from the left, that means the morning is nearly halfway over. When it reaches the dent in the fourth from the right, it means someone will soon be on their way to feed him—or not, depending on the mood of his jailors today.

He’s lost count of how long he’s been here. He’d attempted to keep track for the first six days, scoring a mark onto the wall below the barred window with each sunrise. He’d forgotten one day, couldn’t be bothered the next, and the system had gotten away from him; he’d been stuck on six days since.

“Day seven,” he says each morning when the sun is bright enough to illuminate the cell and wake him from his spot curled upon the floor. “That’s barely even a week.”

The pair of mice who share his cell—skittering here and there, showing off the freedom he wishes he had—do not respond. He makes the same joke every day, and they simply sniff at him, apparently unamused.

Today is day seven—just like yesterday, just like tomorrow. The sunlight reaches the crack in the second floorboard from the left, and nothing happens. He leans back against the wall, staring forwards. He watches a mote of dust sparkle in the light, then fade.

This boredom is deliberate, he suspects. When the masked spies had pulled him from the stage midway through a performance, gagged him, bound him, and dragged him to this cell he’d assumed he’d be dead within two days. Gossip about what the soldiers and spies of Nilfgaard do to their prisoners had reached him months ago, and he’d anticipated torture and blood and pain.

But it hadn’t come. He’d been thrown into the tiny room and left him there. He hasn’t been forgotten—they still bring him food occasionally, if not every day—so he’s been forced to conclude that the seclusion is deliberate.

They’re toying with him. Lulling him into a false sense of security. Making him wait for his own demise, knowing exactly what’s coming to him. It makes each day precious, but each day is the same as the last, and now they've stopped having meaning altogether. It’s nothing more than a cruel, prolonged joke.

Leave him—let him go mad with boredom—let him come to sit with his own death, grieve for himself… and then bring out the thumbscrews.

He sighs, shutting his eyes. Maybe the thumbscrews are preferable to this perpetual waiting, existing but not existing.

They do feed him, today. It’s nothing more than a crust of hard bread, thrown through the door without a word, but he’s grateful for it regardless. Tomorrow he may not be so lucky; they rarely remember him two days in a row.

He stays in the same spot until the cell goes dark. If he looks out of the window, he can likely see the moon. He doesn’t. He moves slowly to the spot in the corner, where once there was a thick pile of straw, and curls in on himself.

He falls asleep. Tomorrow will be day seven, and it will be just like today.

~

“—and he said ‘if I had one blessing’—” Jaskier pauses with a frown. “Yes,” he says, “I know you’ve heard it before, but I’m telling the story and it’s an important one so you’re hearing it again. Yes. Yes I know—”

He sighs, running a hand through his tangled hair and staring down at the two mice perched on the upturned bucket in front of him.

“Oh,” he says, shaking his head, “now that’s not very fair.”

One of the mice peers at him.

“Yes, I know it’s been two years. I should be over it by now. I know. But you can’t just— after twenty years—” he throws his hands in the air. “Well of course you wouldn’t get it, you’re mice. How long do you live? Two years, tops? You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to spend a lifetime pining after…” he trails off. “Do mice pine? I suppose, if you spent two whole years pining…” he shakes the thought from his head. “No, absurd. Of course not. The point is—” he hesitates. What was his point? Oh yes. “The point is that I am fully within my rights to still be angry about it.”

Jaskier slumps back against the wall. “Anyway,” he continues, after a moment. “And he goes, ‘if I had one blessing’—”

He’s not sure how long he’s been talking to the mice. They’re sweet things, and he’d taken days to lure them both in. The first one had appeared quite by chance, and it had looked as rough as Jaskier felt—all scraggly fur with little scars across its back—and his heart couldn’t take it. He’d watched from a distance, then offered a crumb of food after he’d been fed that afternoon.

Against all odds, the mouse had accepted the offering, and he made... a friend. Of sorts. A second mouse had appeared, no doubt lured in by the prospect of food, and now one or both of them are always sharing his cell.

They make for good, if quiet, company. But that’s fine; he can talk enough for all three of them.

He feels like he’s talked through his entire life, several times over. He probably has. He’s touched on his childhood, his father, his fraught teenage years. He tells them about the Academy, and Valdo fucking Marx, and—eventually—about Posada.

He doesn’t really want to talk about Geralt. That’s why he’s here, after all. Nilfgaard wouldn't want him if it weren’t for his connections to the witcher, and soon enough they’ll be dragging him away and asking him more questions about Geralt than he could possibly answer. Than he will answer.

When he thinks about Geralt, it hurts, but he still wouldn’t tell them what he knows; not that he knows very much.

But when he starts talking about their travels together, he finds it hard to stop. He doesn’t talk through their shared adventures chronologically, but picks up whatever thread comes to him first, jumping between memories. He’s sitting with one of the mice perched on his knee a few days after the story of Posada when he pauses partway through a tale about a drowner infestation near Rinde.

“What?” He says, eyebrows raised. “Oh I—” he peers down at his knee. “You’re very perceptive, for a rodent. Yes,” he sniffs. “I was in love with him. Not that I ever told him, or he ever worked it out.” He listens for a moment. “Am I still? I… I can’t say. I want to say no, but—”

He sighs. This is an awkward conversation to have with a mouse. Despite that, it feels good to say it out loud. He wonders if this is another Nilfgaardian trick—get him to spill his secrets to a pair of mice instead of a torturer. But after so long, he no longer cares. Nilfgaard won’t give a shit about the griffin contract that ended up with Geralt being dumped in a dung heap. They’ll care that he’s in love with the witcher, of course—they can use that against him, he’s sure of it—but that barely feels like a secret any more.

If the Nilfgaardians are somehow using the mice to spy on him, they’re taking their damned time to do anything with the information they’ve gotten. So he carries on talking, his own babbling filling the endless silence till his voice goes hoarse and he finally falls asleep, day after day after day.

It’s still early in the morning of the most recent seventh day. The sunshaft has not even reached the first crack in the second floorboard, and he’s sat chatting to the mice as he so often is. The scruffier one seems keen to stick around; no doubt because it struggles to get food alone and knows that Jaskier is a reliable source. The mouse certainly looks like it’d be immediately eaten by a cat or crushed by a cart if it ventured into the street beyond.

Jaskier lowers his hand, and the scruffy mouse scurries onto his palm, no doubt seeking out crumbs. As a boy, Jaskier had trained dogs and cats and—on one memorable occasion—a pigeon, and taming a mouse has proven to be far easier. He lifts it up, peering at its little beady eyes.

“You are a sweet thing,” he says, “even if you look rough.” He laughs at himself. “You make for fine company, given the circumstances.” The mouse sniffs at his hand. “Quite. And look, you haven't even pissed on me, unlike your ungrateful friend.”

The mouse cleans its little face with its paws.

“Very hygienic,” Jaskier agrees.

It really is a darling creature. Acting unthinkingly, like he would with a kitten or a puppy or Roach, if she would ever let him get close enough, he lifts the mouse higher and presses a soft, light kiss to the back of its head.

There is a sound like wind rushing in the wrong direction. A squeak that melds into a swear. A flash—far brighter than the speckled sunlight coming through the bars—and then the mouse is gone and there’s a sudden weight on his legs that makes him shout and there, sitting in his lap and looking dazed, is Geralt.

He is also, Jaskier cannot help but notice, completely naked.

“What the fuck?”

Geralt blinks at him, his eyes refocusing. “You—” his voice sounds hoarse. He coughs, starts again. “You broke the spell.”

“Someone turned you into a fucking mouse?”

“You broke the spell.”

“Yes, you said that. But you were— Geralt, you were a mouse? What the fuck?”

“You still love me.”

Jaskier falls silent. “I… did I say that? In, ah… in so many words?”

Geralt shrugs, and Jaskier makes a concerted effort to look away from his maddening physique, his body littered with new scars.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, voice still gravelly. “Because you broke the spell. With a kiss.”

“But what does that—” it takes Jaskier a moment to catch up. “Hold on. Hold on. That’s a thing? I thought that was just a fairy story!”

Geralt shrugs again. “All stories come from somewhere.”

“Shit.”

Geralt’s expression drops. He looks hurt. Fuck.

“It’s not— Geralt, it’s not that I don’t—” Jaskier scrambles for words. It was so much easier talking to a mouse. “You don’t love me back!” He pauses, watching Geralt’s expression carefully. “...Right?”

Geralt smiles. He leans forwards, pressing their foreheads together. “Can we… talk about it later?” He says, voice low. “I’m not… I’m trying to be better at this, Jask, but we don’t have time…”

There’s a buoyant light in Jaskier’s chest. “I…” He breathes out, slowly. “Of course. Yes. I, ah—”

“I need your help,” Geralt says, cutting him off. “We need your help.”

Jaskier laughs—he can’t help it—then gestures with his arms, taking in the cell around them, the barred windows, the locked door.

“What a coincidence,” he says. “It looks like I’m in need of your help too.”

Geralt sighs. The familiar noise is like coming home. “Fuck,” he mutters. “So you are.”

“Do you…” Jaskier tilts his head to one side, finally allowing his gaze to drop down. “Do you think you can break us out of this cell, take down between six and two dozen Nilfgaardian soldiers and ensure we both get out of here alive while also being completely and totally and quite entirely... “ he looks down again, unable to stop himself from smirking. “...naked?”

There’s a smug half smile on Geralt’s face. Finally, he stands, and now Jaskier really is forced to keep Geralt’s gaze lest he find himself face-to-face with all of his dreams come true at once.

Geralt stretches his shoulders, twisting his neck with a low groan. He extends a hand, pulling Jaskier to his feet.

 Jaskier sings as he sets up camp. He and Geralt have decided to spend the night in the woods, since Geralt needs some repairs done on his armor and didn’t want to let it wait. Jaskier hadn’t liked the look of the moldy and probably cockroach-filled beds at the inn, so sleeping outside it is. 

Geralt is starting a fire as Jaskier pulls their bedrolls off of Roach. He is probably glaring at Jaskier for all the noise he’s making, but Jaskier isn’t looking and therefore doesn’t have to do anything about it. He is close to having a melody that satisfies him, but he isn’t quite there, so he’s singing the tune over and over with slight adjustments as he dances around the camp. 

Then he looks over at Geralt, and nearly jumps out of his skin.

The witcher is staring right at him, catlike eyes reflecting the firelight, and his expression is so intense and strangely happy that Jaskier stumbles over a large root and stubs his toe. He swears, wincing.

Then Jaskier is grasped by a strong hand on his bicep, yanked backwards, and only prevented from a swift and graceless descent to the dirty forest floor by being suddenly pulled against a warm body. Strong arms wrap around him, and Jaskier finds himself in what is quite possibly the most aggressive hug he’s ever experienced. 

He twists around to look up at his captor and is both bewildered and unsurprised to see Geralt looking sternly down at him.

“Geralt? What are you doing?” Jaskier asks. He certainly doesn’t mind the sudden contact, but it is strange to say the least.

“Don’t hurt yourself again,” says Geralt, eyes wide and serious.

“I— what?”

“You were hurt,” Geralt says.

“I’m not hurt.”

“You smelled like pain,” Geralt insists. “You shouldn’t. I don’t like it.”

“I stubbed my toe on a root, Geralt. I hardly think that merits so much concern.”

Geralt ignores Jaskier’s words in favour of tucking him closer against his chest. Jaskier can hear the witcher’s steady heartbeat, feel his chest rising and falling with every breath. One of Geralt’s arms is wrapped securely around Jaskier’s waist, keeping him close, while the other still holds a gentle grip on his arm. Slowly, the hand on his arm moves upward, past his shoulder, until Geralt is gently stroking Jaskier’s cheek.

“Your skin is so soft,” Geralt whispers, entranced.

Something is most definitely wrong. 

“Geralt. What the fuck is going on?” Jaskier tries to wriggle out of Geralt’s grasp, but Geralt makes an unhappy rumble and holds him tighter. 

“I’m protecting you,” he says, sounding almost affronted that Jaskier doesn’t understand.  

“Yes, but why?”

“Because beautiful things shouldn’t get hurt,” says Geralt, as though it’s obvious.

“Right,” says Jaskier faintly. Geralt calling him beautiful was definitely not on the list of things he’d expected to happen today. “Did you eat or drink anything strange recently?”

Geralt frowns. “Are you hungry?”

“Wh— no! I want to know if you were poisoned!”

“I can get you food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh.” Geralt sounds almost disappointed.

Jaskier stares up at him. The witcher’s face is more open than Jaskier has ever seen it, and right now he is looking at Jaskier with such earnest care that Jaskier barely recognizes him. Something is most definitely wrong.

Then Jaskier remembers their contract from earlier.

“That witch,” Jaskeir hisses. “What did she do?”

Geralt looks at him with an expression that can only be described as fond. “I don’t know how someone so soft can be so fierce,” he says softly. 

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. It takes a moment before he remembers to breathe again. 

Right. This is definitely a curse.

“I’m going to kill her,” he seethes.

Geralt shrugs. “What’s the problem?”

“This is not normal, Geralt. You’re acting strange. She must have done something. Maybe she cursed you. Who knows what nefarious purposes she might have? What if it’ll get worse? What if it’s fatal? I can’t lose you, Geralt!” Jaskier knows he’s getting unreasonable, but he’s facing a sudden turnaround of everything he’s come to expect from Geralt and has no idea what’s coming next. He thinks he’s entitled to a little hysteria.

Geralt pulls him closer, making unhappy noises. “‘M fine. Don’t worry, Jaskier. It’ll be okay.” He pulls Jaskier down to the bedroll that Jaskier had been attempting to lay out and settles down, tucking Jaskier’s head into the crook of his neck. “Shh,” he whispers soothingly, and Jaskier goes silent in surprise. Geralt humms happily and rearranges them until they’re lying down chest-to-chest, Jaskier still held securely in his arms. He makes a rumbling noise that could almost be a purr. When Jaskier looks up at him in a few moments, Geralt is asleep and smiling. Not a mostly-hidden, half-invisible smile — a real smile.

Jaskier’s heart does a very unhelpful flutter at the sight. He should not be enjoying this. This is not normal.

Something is very wrong, and Jaskier doesn’t know how to fix it.

 The next day, Jaskier feels exhausted and has only the barest shreds of an idea.

He is almost certain that the problem is magical in origin. He doesn’t have the skills required to fix something like that, and in this state Geralt is unlikely to be any help. That leaves only one person Jaskier can think of who might be able to fix this: Yennefer.

Oh joy.

In an unusual stroke of lucky coincidence, Jaskier remembers hearing news of her recently. Geralt asked about her when he took the contract for this mage, in case the contract was just another case of Yennefer causing mischief, and had been assured by the alderman that she is living a town or two away. If nothing goes wrong, they could reach her within a few days. 

It takes him almost an hour to convince Geralt to get up and moving (he is now very much not a morning person, apparently) but once they do, things proceed more or less normally. Geralt walks beside Roach and Jaskier walks beside Geralt. Geralt, for once, doesn’t seem to care where they’re going, so Jaskier simply leads them in the right direction. 

At one point, Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier nearly chokes, but when Geralt looks at him with concern Jaskier waves him off. He doesn’t want to upset the peace, and a large part of him also doesn’t want to let go. He ignores the way his hand feels like it’s tingling with the contact and continues on.

In an ironic turn of events, he is almost relieved when they find the house that Yennefer is staying in.

 “The curse is affecting his impulse control?” says Jaskier, baffled and loud.

“That’s what I said,” says Yennefer. She only had to take one look at the two of them before her irritation changed into amusement and she agreed to examine Geralt. Jaskier had to wait in her very lavish sitting room for over half an hour, but now she and Geralt have emerged and she is explaining her findings. 

“Are you sure? So sure you would stake your favorite poisoned murder knife on it?”

“Yes, bard.” Yennefer looks about three seconds away from rolling her eyes so hard they fall out of her skull.

“Then— then why all the…” Jaskier gestures weakly at Geralt, who is currently staring at Jaskier from across the room as though he’ll disappear if Geralt so much as blinks. “The cuddling and stuff?” 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” says Yennefer, now looking distinctly amused.

Geralt chooses that moment to cross the room and pull Jaskier close, burying his face into Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier looks beseechingly at Yennefer. The sorceress remains outwardly poised, but Jaskier can see the laughter in her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “It should wear off in a few weeks at most.”

“A few weeks?” Jaskier squawks.

“Soft,” Geralt whispers in awe, voice muffled by a mouthful of Jaskier’s hair.

What has Jaskier done to deserve this?

“You lot have no respect for my nerves,” Jaskier declares, and Yennefer can no longer restrain her laughter.

 Yennefer lends Geralt and Jaskier one of her many spare rooms for them to stay in until the curse wears off. Jaskier is sitting on the very large bed trying not to think about how she got a house with so many rooms to begin with. Geralt appears to be searching the room for something. 

“What are you looking for?” Jaskier asks idly.

“Threats,” says Geralt. 

“I’m pretty sure that if Yennefer wanted to hurt us, we’d already be dead.”

“I have to keep you safe,” says Geralt, as though that explains everything. Jaskier most definitely does not find this cute. 

It’s another few minutes before Geralt appears satisfied and comes to sit on the bed beside Jaskier. 

“No monsters that are going to jump out from behind the dresser, then?” asks Jaskier fondly.

Geralt shakes his head. “We’re safe.” 

They sit in silence for a moment. Then Jaskier feels a hesitant warmth against his wrist, and Geralt takes his hand again. He turns to look at the witcher to see golden eyes staring at him intently. 

“You’re pretty,” says Geralt softly. 

Jaskier sucks in a breath, and Geralt’s eyes dart down to his lips. Geralt leans forward. Jaskier can feel the warmth of his breath on his skin, feel the heat of his gaze. Geralt tilts his head just slightly, and then—

“Wait, hold on a moment,” says Jaskier, pulling away with a monumental effort. “You— you’re cursed, Geralt. We shouldn’t.”

Geralt looks at him mournfully.  “But I want to.” 

If it weren’t so mind-bogglingly strange to contemplate, Jaskier would say Geralt was whining.

“I’ve always wanted to,” Geralt continues. “I was just too scared.”

Jaskier takes a long, deep breath and steps away. “Yeah, there’s no way this is just bad impulse control.”  

There is no world in which Geralt really wants to kiss him, now or ever. Not if he is in his right mind.

Jaskier looks at Geralt, sitting there wide-eyed and earnest, offering Jaskier everything he’s ever dreamed of on a silver platter, and he knows that he cannot accept. Not like this. 

He thinks he might be about to cry.

 It is the middle of the night. Jaskier is in one of Yennefer’s obscenely comfortable beds, wrapped in the arms of a softly snoring witcher. In any other circumstance, it would be the happiest he’s ever been. But it isn’t real. Geralt is not in his right mind. Geralt doesn’t really want this. 

Jaskier can’t take it anymore. 

He carefully extracts himself from Geralt’s arms, makes sure he is still asleep, and pads softly out of the room. Yennefer’s room is down the stairs and through several corridors, but Jaskier manages to get only slightly lost before he finds it. He steels himself and knocks on her door.

“What?” comes Yennefer’s irritated voice from the other side of the door.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The door opens and Jaskier is suddenly faced with a glare more withering than should be physically possible. 

“And you had to come to this conclusion at three o’clock in the morning?” she asks acidly.

Jaskier gulps. “Please don’t kill me.”

Yennefer sighs. “No point now. I’m already awake.” She raises a single, perfectly-poised eyebrow that is somehow more eloquent than an eight-page essay. “Now, what was important enough to interrupt my sleep?” 

Jaskier takes a breath. “I… I need you to break the curse. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Why? I should think you would enjoy his sudden cuddliness.”

“It’s not him. He would never do this in his right mind.”

“That’s the point. The mage removed his impulse control, remember?”

Jaskier closes his eyes, braces himself, and tells her. “He tried to kiss me, Yennefer.”

There is a beat of silence. 

“And?” says Yennefer.

Jaskier opens his eyes. Yennefer doesn’t look upset. Or jealous. Or even surprised. If anything, she looks exasperated.

“Wh— You— he tried to kiss me, Yennefer!”

“Yes, I heard you the first time,” she says. “And?”

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times, but no sound comes out.

“We both know he doesn’t really want to kiss me,” he says eventually. “He would never even think about it if he were in his right mind. This can’t just be a matter of self-control. And… I can’t take this anymore. Not like this. Not from him.”

“You’re an idiot,” says Yennefer.

Jaskier just shrugs. Sometimes Yennefer says things that are best left unquestioned.

Yennefer’s sighs, but her eyes soften almost imperceptibly. 

“Fine,” she says. “I think I did find a way to break the curse. Geralt just needs to fulfill the conditions. I’ll tell you more at breakfast. Now, can I go back to bed?”

Jaskier slumps in relief.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. Yennefer nods once, then slams the door in his face.

Jaskier goes back to bed with a lighter heart than before.

 “So,” Jaskier says the next morning, when the three of them all sit down to breakfast, “You said you know how to break the curse?”

Geralt looks up from his food at that, seeming intrigued although not overly concerned. 

“Yes,” says Yennefer. “The mage left a condition that, if fulfilled, will break the curse.” 

“What’s the condition?” asks Jaskier.

“Geralt needs to tell a secret. About how he feels, ideally.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Well, that gives us a lot of options. Geralt tries to keep all of his emotions secret.” 

“It’s not quite so simple. It has to be something big, and probably important. The mage might have had something specific in mind.”

“Like what?”

“I think I have an idea.”

“Go on then,” says Jaskier.

Yennefer turns to look at Geralt, who seems to be enjoying his pastry.

“Geralt,” asks Yennefer, “Why are you hugging Jaskier?” 

Geralt looks at her warily and doesn't answer.

Yennefer sighs. “Jaskier, you ask him.” 

“Why?”

“Just try it.”

Jaskier twists around to look at Geralt. “Geralt, why have you been so huggy lately?”

Geralt suddenly looks like a puppy that’s just been kicked. “You don’t like it?”

Jaskier hastens to correct his mistake. “No, darling, I love it,” he reassures. “I’m just confused. You’re usually not so… open about our friendship.”

“We’re not friends.”

Jaskier resists the urge to slam his forehead on the table. “Geralt. You’re literally cuddling me right now. Can we please stop with the whole witchers-have-no-feelings nonsense?”

“‘M not cuddling you because we’re friends.”

“Then why are you cuddling me?” Jaskier asks, thoroughly exasperated.

“Because I love you,” Geralt says, as though it’s obvious. “Silly bard.”

Then Geralt stiffens. He blinks twice, looks down at the bard in his arms, and freezes. 

“Fuck,” he says, pulling away as though burned. Before anyone can react, he storms out of the room. 

Jaskier can only watch him go helplessly, feeling slightly like he was just trampled by a stampede of unicorns. 

“What the fuck just happened?” he asks faintly.

“He broke the curse,” says Yennefer. 

“How?”

“I already told you. He had to tell a secret about how he feels.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No way. That couldn’t possibly have been his big secret. He said he loves me, Yennefer!”

“Yes, I heard.” 

“He’s in love with you, not me.”

“If he wasn’t telling the truth, the curse wouldn’t have broken.” 

Jaskier gapes at her. “I— he— what?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “What are you waiting for? He’s probably brooding himself to death as we speak.”

Jaskier stands on shaking legs and goes to find his witcher.

 Jaskier walks into their room and is greeted with the sight of Geralt packing up his things. Geralt tenses as he notices Jaskier’s approach.

“Geralt! What are you doing?” asks Jaskier.

“Packing,” Geralt grunts.

“What? Why?”

“I’m getting out of your hair.”

“Geralt, stop that. Look at me. We need to talk.” 

Geralt turns to glare at Jaskier. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Jaskier blinks. “What?”

“I’m sorry. About the last few days. I know you didn’t want any of it. You tried to stop me. You were uncomfortable. You must want to get away from me. So I’m helping.”

Geralt is breathing heavily by the end of his speech as though physically exhausted by stringing together so many words.

Jaskier frowns. “You were cursed, Geralt. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend,” says Geralt. “Anyone would be uncomfortable.” 

“Uncomfortable about what, exactly?”

Geralt glares at Jaskier for a long moment before saying anything.

“Uncomfortable about knowing what I want,” he grits out. “Knowing how I feel.”

Jaskier’s world grinds to a halt. “Wait. The curse really only affected your self-control?”

Geralt grunts in a vaguely affirmative manner.

“You really wanted to do all that?”

Geralt nods stiffly.

“Even the cuddling and protecting me from stubbed toes?”

Geralt grunts again. He looks like he’s bracing himself for execution. 

He doesn to look like he expected it when Jaskier beaks out into loud, near-hysterical laughter. If anything, he looks concerned for Jaskier’s sanity.

“Oh my gods. Geralt, darling, I wasn’t uncomfortable because I didn’t want you to do those things. I was uncomfortable because I thought you would never want that. It was too good to be true. I felt like I was taking advantage of you. It was too close to what I wanted, not too far away.”

Geralt still looks wary, but now there’s a glimmer of hope buried behind those golden eyes.

“Don’t you mind… what I said at breakfast?” he asks hesitantly.

“About being in love with me?”

Geralt nods.

“Did you mean it?”

Another nod.

Jaskier pulls Geralt into a quick but enthusiastic kiss.

“Does that answer your question?” he asks breathlessly.

Geralt looks at him intently, eyes searching his face almost desperately.

“I love you too,” says Jaskier. “Silly witcher. I’ve loved you for years.”

“Oh.”

Then Geralt is kissing Jaskier, and Jaskier doesn’t think for a long while. 

 Yennefer is, of course, absolutely insufferable when they eventually emerge from the room, but Jaskier finds he doesn’t mind. After all, she’s probably the only reason that Geralt and Jaskier aren’t still dealing with a curse in the woods somewhere. She deserves the chance to gloat a little.

They say goodbye with effusive gratitude on Jaskier’s part, slightly more reluctant thanks from Geralt, and amused exasperation from Yennefer. Jaskier, despite himself, is smiling.

As Jaskier walks down the road, hand-in-hand with Geralt, he almost feels grateful to the mage who cursed the witcher. Without her, he may never have had this. 

Geralt’s eyes are glowing in a light Jaskier hasn’t seen before, in a light he never wishes to see again. They’re glowing, and something unworldly glows with them, laughs with the evil memory of fairy tales, and evil sorceresses and true love’s kisses. As the blade glistens dangerously close to his eyes, as he walks backward in trembling steps, he thinks they’re so far away from what would make a beautiful fairytale to tell children before sleep. There will be no happy ending here. Somehow he knows.

There’s a tickle on his fingertips, burning.

The sword whips beside his ear and he stumbles back once more, panting, breath coming out strained. He raises his head, looks at Geralt. Or what he remembers was Geralt. Because now what he sees seems foreign, cold, and the amber in his eyes doesn’t warm him like the sun anymore, instead burns, like a fire which he willingly, inevitably steps into. There’s a lump caught in his throat, a sob screaming to get out. And, as though on instinct, with the strongest pang of guilt numbing his bones, he has to remind himself. He’s not a monster, he’s not a monster. He’s not Geralt. Geralt is not a monster.

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, he meets Geralt’s, no, the man’s eyes and, like the fool, like the poet he is, he hopes. “Geralt,” he says and his voice shakes weakly with the terrifying hint of denial, “Geralt, it’s me, please.” The air is ripped by the blade once again, he steps back, eyes still locked with amber. A whimper. “Come back to me, love, please. I love you, come back.”

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, the sun entering from the narrow, stained window reflects on Geralt’s eyes and something familiar glints behind them, a distant scream of a heart wailing to get out. But it’s only for a moment. Because Geralt growls and lowers his sword again with maniacal force and Jaskier screams, ducks and falls on his knees in an ironic parody of a plea for mercy. There’s a feeling of wetness on his bicep and he hisses as crimson blood stains the white sleeve. Not his fault, Jaskier reminds himself, not his fault.

It’s not his fault, yet he wants to cry as he stares into his eyes, cold like the blade that threatens to tear him to pieces, cold like the countless winter nights he’s spent without him, cold like his hand as he grasps it desperately, pushes him back in a failed attempt to trap him, in a foolish, hopeless hope of making him throw the sword away.

A true love’s kiss, he thinks, and almost laughs, because it sounds more like a death wish. And he’s starting to think it will be.

And then he sees Geralt raising his hand and before he has time to think about it, he’s being swept back with the most violent wind, and falls head first on the wall behind him. And slumps to fall on his knees. But there’s a sudden sting on his abdomen and he opens his eyes just in time to see the silver blade pointed on tender skin and jolts back with a gasp, stuck on the wall. “Fuck, Geralt,” he pants and looks at him and, for some reason, he expects his stare to be requited. It is. But it’s empty. It’s empty, and the sword on his stomach tickles painfully and the room is whirling. He blinks hard, gasps again. He can’t hold on, he knows.

And as he gazes at Geralt, he remembers. Warmth. Faint smiles, fingers down his back. Lips tasting of sweet wine, and flowers on his hair, and sleepy eyes staring at him before dropping, and love, and safety, and home . And finally, finally he understands.

He hates that he understands. But then again, the blade is cold like a hug full of regrets and Geralt’s eyes are empty and, oh, what he wouldn’t give to see those eyes, familiar and warm and looking at him again, even if it’s for the last time. He hasn’t much left to give, truth be told. Only his hope, and his life, and he feels them both competing for which is going to reach the end of the line.

“Geralt,” he whispers, again, and that spare root of hope he had starts to rot. “Geralt, please, don’t...” Are those tears? His eyes are burning. “Wake up, love, it’s me.”

What hope? He knows there is not. He knows, because it’s empty, forever empty, and the blade stings deeper and he pleads, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, as if it means anything anymore, as if it’s Geralt.

He understands. And knows, if he’s to die, he has to die the way he lived, by love, as a poet. For love, then. As a poet, and for love.

So he straightens himself, eyes steady on Geralt. And takes a step forward against the blade.

It’s numbing, the pain. Another step. He gasps, chokes on his own blood. Another step, and Geralt stares, empty, blade steady in place as though on purpose, but there’s a familiar glint somewhere in there now, a familiar fear. Jaskier is close. His feet are giving in, his breath is shortening, and it’s a pity really, such a torturous death.. He’s close. So close that he can rest on Geralt’s shoulder, and he feels the blade ripping his flesh, his insides, his everything. He coughs up blood, chokes, eyes rolling to the back of his head. And he feels the blade dripping behind him. And he feels Geralt’s breath on his skin. So he cups his face in a shaking hand, and leans in.

It’s nothing. A brush of lips, tender in all its agony. It’s nothing. The world is blurring. It’s love.

It’s nothing.

The sword slips away as he falls, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of unending blood and slowly consuming darkness and he thinks, it’s supposed to be bright, it’s supposed to hurt less now.

He thinks, he’s supposed to spare himself from Geralt’s anguished look when he comes to, and realizes.

Instead.

“Jaskier!”

He doesn’t feel the pain. Only his body, lifted from the floor, and the scorching blood and the arms, those arms that hold him so tight he wants to scream all the apologies, all the regrets of the world. He doesn’t need to. They all echo in Geralt’s eyes.

It’s sweet, the pain. It’s melodic, the plea. Jaskier, please, stay with me, you fool, you’re alright, stay with me.

He wants to laugh. He’s long gone.

The greatest act, to die for love. A fitting ending, for a poet. He wishes someone will write it, this story, their story, and maybe give it a happier ending. Maybe they will go to the coast. Maybe they’ll end up closing their eyes together, holding each other tight, and maybe there’s no blood, only bitter tears of happiness.

It’s a fairytale. It can’t be tragic.

I love you, you’ll be alright, please, please don’t leave me alone.

A forehead pressed against his and he stares at Geralt and, oh, how he misses him already, and how bright he looks in his sorrow, how beautiful behind the veil that slowly falls between them. Jaskier parts his lips, chokes. “Geralt,” he croaks and it sounds like a sob uttered by every single wilting flower in the world. “Geralt, look at me.” He raises a trembling hand on his face, his fingertips leaving smudges of blood over the falling tears.

Geralt doesn’t look. Only stares at the wound, and back at Jaskier, unfocused, horrified, numb, as though it won’t happen if he doesn’t acknowledge.

It’s darker now, and there’s a last grip holding him back, and Jaskier knows it’s the warmth of Geralt’s hug, always is. “If I die for you, will you live for me, love?” he whispers and finally, finally Geralt turns at him, eyes wide, and Jaskier smiles, something close to a wince, as though it’ll hurt less like that, letting go.

Geralt shakes his head. “If I refuse will you stay alive?”

A huff. Painful. “No. No, I don’t think so.” It’s silent like the breeze now, his voice. Jaskier wipes the rivers of tears on Geralt’s cheek and smiles again, and this time it’s genuine, probably because it’s the last one. “It’s alright, hush. You’re not alone.” Shaking, he removes silver strands away from Geralt’s eyes, and slumps, leans on his shoulder as though finally resting. “Hush now, my love. Let me look into your eyes one last time.”

He does. He looks. It’s the same eyes, same as always, warm and loving, like a tender caress.

To die for love. How tragic. But what is a poet’s love, if not the most heart-wrenching tragedy?

The bloodied hand gently falls on the floor.

There’s a streak of red light coming through the stained window, and rests on blue eyes, mistaking them for the peaceful sea after a storm in their stillness.

They stare, forever open, and somehow forever warm.

“I don’t see anything wrong with you. I wonder what she meant by to guilt and love I give a voice; what do you think, Geralt?”

“I have a sneaking suspicion that I won’t be getting much sleep tonight,” the Witcher grimaces. Jaskier shies away, moving toward Roach. 

“I’ll stay out of your way and be quiet, then.”

“Poor thing,” Eskel pipes up. “He cares for you so deeply; must you always snap at him like that?”

“He’s just along for the fame and fortune,” Lambert scoffs. “He’s using you for your reputation and adventures. He just wants to use you to make a name for himself.”

“Why would a Viscount need to make any more of a name for himself?” Eskel fights back, their bickering voices unusually soothing despite the topic of conversation, which is actually making Geralt’s skin crawl. He hates confronting his feelings for Jaskier. They’re annoyingly, overwhelmingly positive. “He could be taking a hot bath every night and sleeping on silk sheets, yet here he stands, silently waiting for our dumbass brother to get a move on.”

Geralt takes the prompt and stalks forward to swing himself up into Roach’s saddle. It hadn’t been a pleasant afternoon and he suspects that things aren’t going to get much better. Jaskier’s shoulders are slumped and his fingers toy nervously with the strap of his lute.

The Witcher mumbles, “You can hum, Jaskier. It’s... fine.”

“Oh,” the bard smiles up at him, blue eyes sparkling in the late afternoon light. “Thank you, Geralt. I’d like to try to work out this rather finicky new melody if you don’t mind.”

“Hmm.”

“You could... praise him?” Eskel offers. “You did so well just now, it was nearly a full compliment.”

“Psh, and reveal the secret he’s been hiding for damn near a decade? The bard would be crushed.”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming out loud. He’s frustrated already, and he suspects that until he confesses or swears to keep silent about his feelings forever, these two conjurations won’t be leaving any time soon.

---

“Kiss him,” Eskel urges, tugging a lock of Geralt’s hair. He’s established that Jaskier cannot see the tiny Wolf Witchers; the nature of the curse would be too obvious if he could. “He looks so lovely in the firelight, don’t you think? Actually I do know what you think. You think he looks lovely all the time, you just won’t admit it.”

“Why should he admit it? That would ruin a perfectly good friendship. Like you said, Eskel, Jaskier is a Viscount! He can’t stay on the Path with Geralt forever. Eventually he’ll need to return to Lettenhove to marry and settle down. He’s titled, and we can’t expect him to follow a monster around forever, much less fall in love with one.”

“He has never once thought of Geralt as a monster!”

Geralt wants to cry. He wants to rip out his hair and run, screaming with madness, into the dark embrace of the woods around them. Alas, the bard would be Wyvern-bait without him there for protection. 

And the curse would stay with him no matter how far he ran. 

He closes his eyes and kneels, but the quiet respite of meditation never comes. 

---

Geralt is fucking exhausted. His brothers never stop talking. Arguing. Debating. Pleading. 

He’s gone truly mad. Jaskier stirs in his sleep, four nights after the curse was cast, and Geralt flinches. His scent is otherworldly and the Witcher’s patience is thinner than tissue paper. Eskel has been very convincing as of late.

He smells like the damp earth after a summer rain, sweetened by something unnamable but floral. He smells like springtime. Youth. Beauty. Geralt whines unconsciously, the sound creeping out from somewhere high in his throat. Jaskier stirs again and blinks his sleepy eyes open. His cute pink tongue darts over his bottom lip and Geralt bites off the sound with a sudden gasp. 

“Sorry for waking you.”

“What’s wrong?” the deep concern in Jaskier’s sleep-soft voice stirs the love in Geralt’s heart violently. “You sound wounded. Are you alright?”

“I-” Geralt falters. Falls to his knees in the dirt next to Jaskier’s bedroll. Cups the bard’s face gently with one hand. Lambert begins to swear violently as Eskel cheers him, egging him on. “I love you, Jaskier.”

His brothers disappear. 

His ears ring with the sudden silence, the only ambiance coming from the crackling fire.

Jaskier balks up at him, a look of utter terror written plainly on his face. “Geralt? Is this... the curse? Why would you say that?”

“Do you- Are you angry with me, Jaskier? I understand if-”

“No, you fool,” Jaskier laughs, sitting up and leaning closer. “I- I love you, too. I didn’t think you’d ever- That you could ever- After Yennefer...”

Geralt kisses his bard with such sweetness that Jaskier melts against him, his hands braced against that familiar, broad chest. They kiss until sunrise, and then they kiss some more. There’s a lot of lost time to make up for, a lot of poor decisions to be rectified.

The scent of blood was thick in the air and all he knew was the hunt.

The prey was wounded. It was an easy kill.

He screeched as he prepared to land the final blow but a large snowy white wolf with glowing amber eyes suddenly stood between him and the prey.

Amber eyes.

Jaskier knew those eyes.

Geralt.

He let his magic loose and shifted back into a wolf. There was just something about Geralt being in wolf form that ignited all his pack instincts. He didn’t know whether Geralt was stuck as a wolf or could shift between animals, but Jaskier knew he would match Geralt no matter what.

The thought gave him pause. He wondered whether it was an instinct of his people, lost and long forgotten. Were there ever groups of shifters? Were they still alive? Or was he alone… He’d always felt so alone. Jaskier nudged his head under Geralt’s snout and whined. Geralt huffed and butted Jaskier’s head. Jaskier did his best wolfy grin and then mouthed at Geralt’s nose before rolling over onto his back with a wag of his tail.

Geralt gave a quick bark and then looked pointedly between Jaskier and mage. Jaskier tilted his head, wondering how Geralt still managed to look unimpressed even as a wolf. Jaskier snorted and rolled back onto his paws. He glanced around the room, his clothes were still at the inn. Geralt’s clothes appeared to have disappeared when he was changed into a wolf; lucky bastard. He spotted a long cloak hanging up on the wall and wagged his tail. He leapt up on his hind legs and pulled at the cloak with his teeth. When he was covered nicely by the heavy material he shifted back into his human form with a crack of his bones.

The cloak was thick, grey and woollen. It had a large hood, reminiscent of the cloaks the elves used. He wrapped it round his shoulders and then grinned at Geralt.

“Hello, dearest. I know you’re the White Wolf and all, but isn’t this taking it a bit too far?” He reached out with his hand and Geralt bumped it with his snout. He gave Geralt a quick scratch behind the ears. “Can you shift?”

Geralt tilted his head.

Jaskier frowned and stuck his tongue out as he tried to figure out a way to explain it. It was like trying to explain how to blink or breathe or… just exist. “Umm, ah, think of Roach? Try and feel her hooves, her mane?”

Geralt’s snout scrunch up and he let out a snarl.

“No?”

Geralt shook his head, one ear twitched and Jaskier couldn’t help but coo. Geralt growled at that.

“I’m sorry!” He said, not really sorry at all. “But, my love, you look so cute!”

Another growl.

“Oh stop it. You’re trying to be all scary witcher and it’s not working. You are adorable and I can turn into a dragon so shush.” He bopped Geralt on the nose and gave him another scratch behind the ears. Geralt’s tail began to wag. Geralt looked behind him and snarled, clearly not enjoying the way his body was betraying his feelings. He also looked as if he was about to start chasing his tail. He was baring his teeth, snarling as the tail flicked on the stone floor. Jaskier took pity on him and knelt down so he could cup his wolf’s face in his hands. “Geralt, darling?”

Geralt blinked and looked up at him.

“There you go. The instincts might feel a bit strong at first but we’ll work it out alright?” Jaskier buried in face in Geralt’s fur, his own instincts to shift back into a wolf were almost overwhelming him, but Geralt needed him human. It was easier to explain things to his newly wolf companion when he could use words. It was also nice to be able to snuggle in Geralt’s fur for a change.  “Do you know how to fix this?”

Geralt shook his head.

“I shouldn’t have killed the mage, should I?” Jaskier asked with a sigh.

Another head shake and a whine.

Jaskier kissed Geralt’s head. “In my defence, witcher. I thought he’d killed you!” Geralt licked his face and he grimaced. “Geralt! Oh gods, that went up my nose!”

Geralt wagged his tail and pounced. Jaskier was knocked back onto the ground and Geralt’s tongue was drooling all over his face, which would have been fine if Geralt’s tongue didn’t feel so coarse against his skin. “Oi, no! Get off you big lump!”

Geralt nipped at his ear and sat back down, his tail thumped noisily against the stone floor.

Jaskier sighed and grabbed Geralt’s swords from where they’d clattered on the floor. Jaskier hummed. Geralt’s clothes and medallion had changed with him but his swords had not. At least his magic was consistent. Geralt head-butted his leg and they finally fled the tower together. It felt strange being the one on two feet instead of four but they’d faced worse things in their two years travelling together.

Two years…

Had it really been so long? He’d been with Geralt for two whole years… not mentioning the little blip of his mother’s horrendous return into his life. He shuddered at the memory. Yeah, they’d definitely been through worse together. ___________

As they approached the town Geralt snorted and laid down on the ground, resting his head on his big white paws. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder at the wolf with a scowl before he realised why Geralt had stopped. He grinned and walked back to pet Geralt’s head. Geralt’s tail thumped heavily against the ground as Jaskier gave him a scratch behind the ear. Geralt still looked put out by his tail’s reaction to affection but now seemed resigned to the fact he could no longer mask his happier feelings.

“Well isn’t this a turn of events. I’m normally the one that has to wait outside!” Jaskier announced with a laugh.

Geralt let out a low growl and mouthed at Jaskier’s fingers.

“Ouch! Sharp teeth, Geralt. You’re not exactly a pup, dear heart,” Jaskier chided.

Geralt’s ears flicked and Jaskier was pretty sure the strange snuffling noise was Geralt trying to laugh at him.

“Stay here. I’ll go and get our stuff,” he sighed and looked down at himself. The cloak wasn’t exactly modest and whilst he had very little shame over his body, most humans wouldn’t appreciate him walking around town with his dick out. “Next time we are keeping my clothes in a pack and not back at the inn.”

Geralt barked and his tongue hung out of his mouth as he wagged his tail.

“Yeah yeah, go on, laugh at your poor suffering boyfriend.”

Geralt barked again and jumped up to lick Jaskier’s face, placing both paws on Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier just ruffled Geralt’s fur and kissed his snout.

“I’ll be back soon, love.”

He wrapped the cloak around him in a feeble attempt to cover himself up and trudged back to the inn. He did get some bizarre looks from the villagers but he did his best to ignore them. Had they never seen a bard wearing just a cloak and witcher’s swords before? He scoffed. They were amateurs. He tried to sneak up to their room at the inn but the bloody innkeeper spotted him.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?”

Jaskier spun around, only just remembering to keep his hands gripped on the cloak to stop it from flying open. He still had Geralt’s swords in their holder in his hand and he held them up for the innkeeper to see. “I’m a friend of the witcher’s. Jaskier? The bard? You might have heard of me?”

“Toss a Coin?” The innkeeper asked and Jaskier let out a sigh of relief.

“Ah, yes. That’s the one,” He sang a couple of lines just to prove his point. “And umm, well. Geralt… Geralt was looking after my lute for me whilst I was… away?”

“Away?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier winced. It was a terrible story and he was ashamed. “But you see, I really need to get it back.”

“Did the witcher take your clothes too?” The innkeeper asked with a smirk, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up and it took all his control not to shift back into a mouse. He laughed nervously and tugged the cloak tighter around his chest. “Well, funny you should say that.”

“Those his swords?”

“Yes! Yes they are. I ran into him on the path just outside of town. He’s dealt with your mage problem, but ah. Umm. Spells! He was hit by a spell and it’s really not very pretty so he asked me to collect our… his.. belongings. So I’m just…” He pointed to the stairs and the innkeeper waved his hand. “Thank you ever so much, kind sir. May all the gods praise you!”

“Just go, bard.”

Jaskier gave a quick bow and then flew up the stairs, two steps at at time. Once inside the room he got dressed and quickly gathered up their belongings before heading back out to fetch Roach. The conversation with the stable girl went just as well as the one with the innkeeper and Jaskier barely remembered the story he’d woven only a few minutes before, but he was gone and heading back towards the forest before anyone else could question him.

He didn’t ride Roach but it was easier with her carrying the bags and his lute. Once he was out of sight from the townsfolk he considered shifting back into a wolf. Whatever the mage had hit Geralt with was driving him crazy, but they still needed to find a solution to Geralt’s wolf problem so regretfully he remained on two feet. He huffed and dragged his feet as they headed back to where he’d left Geralt. How did people cope with being in one form all the time? It was so boring!

___________