#human geralt

Yennefer rolled her eyes grinning at the sight in front of her; it was quite incredible how many stories the witcher had managed to tell in the last hour.

“Am I talking too much? I feel like I’m talking too much. Hey someone’s singin', that’s your job.” Geralt scowled in the direction of the young up and coming bard who was nervously trying and failing to get the room to quieten down for his attention. He tried to poke at Jaskier's chest but the bard caught his finger first, then cupped his cheek, bringing Geralt’s eyes back to look at his.

“I’m not the only poet on the continent, love. We deserve a night off, don’t we? And anyway, I’m enjoying hearing your stories.” He was adorable, Jaskier thought, all pouty like a puppy training to be a guard dog.

Geralt scrunched his nose up, seemingly angry at the thought of someone else daring to hold an instrument in their hands, but the soft touch of Jaskier’s palm on his cheek helped distract him. Or the ale. It was one of them.

The bard began playing a song, and the witcher yanked Jaskier up by the arm, pulling a squeak out of his chest.

“You LOVE this one. I’ve heard you sing it. I heard Lambert sing it once when he was waiting on Kiera to come to the keep, but he warned me never to tell anyone, or he’d cut my ears off in my sleep so that I’d never hear anything again.” Geralt whispered the last part like somehow Lambert might find out anyway.

Jaskier giggled at every tale that Geralt had to tell, even if Yennefer was pointing a finger down her throat every time they touched.

Geralt stood rigid, and after a beat, leaned into Jaskier’s neck, a stumble that was meant to be a whisper in his ear; “I dunno what ‘m doing. I’ve only ever danced at balls with Yennefer. But I know you like this.”

He was definitely drunk, Jaskier thought, finding it totally endearing but also feeling the powerful need to protect this silly not-witcher. “I do like this, here-"Jaskier placed his arms around him, doing two jobs, leading him since he didn’t know what he was doing, but also making sure he was going to be able to catch him if he fell. “Just follow me.”

Yennefer, eventually excused herself to the room they’d purchased for the evening, leaving the pair awkwardly dancing to the young musician. It was all rather cosy until he began to sing one of Jaskier’s more popular love songs.

“Before you grump, it’s perfectly okay for him to sing this. As long as he doesn’t say he wrote it.” Jaskier laughed, and Geralt fell forward, using his shoulder as a way to keep himself upright.

“I prefer it when you sing it.”

The words were hot against Jaskier’s neck, but before he could let the warmth settle in his chest, Geralt grumbled rather suddenly.

“I don’t feel good.”

Jaskier rubbed at his back, that feeling of protection taking centre stage. “Come on, love. Time for bed, I think. Maybe the nice lady will give you some water if you’re polite.” He put his arm around Geralt’s back, then they both stumbled into the room where Yennefer had been sleeping, failing miserably at trying to be quiet as they took turns to shoosh each other.

Jaskier helped him get undressed for bed, a job far harder than he thought it would be since Geralt continued to fall with his full weight onto the bed, then helped him get tucked in on the bed Yennefer wasn’t sleeping on.

Asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Jaskier pulled out his sleeping mat, and began to set things up on the floor.

“What are you doing? You’ve never had a problem sharing before.” Yennefer looked down from the bed.

“I know it’s, I just- I’m giving him some space, that’s all.” Jaskier hoped that the excuse would be enough. Geralt had been, clingy - really clingy tonight, and he was convinced that he might be a bit embarrassed about it in the morning. And if that was the case, he didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. "How could I disturb that perfect angel."

Brown eyes meet Jaskier’s, so warm and so open. Jaskier continues.

“When I first came here, they told me everything about you, Geralt. How you’ve been protecting this town, long before any witchers came around. How you fought with your bare hands to save those girls from that griffin two years ago, how you provided shelter for those lost and starving, how you never did these things for reward, only asking for a peaceful life at this ranch with your horses.” The corners of Jaskier’s lips quirk upwards. “I knew I had to meet you. A mysterious man, a hero without any superpowers.”

The blush painted across Geralt’s cheeks is too adorable. Jaskier wonders if he can tuck away the loose strands of curls and feel Geralt’s skin under his palm.

“I’m…not a hero,” Geralt splutters.

“No? You are in my eyes. I think, in another life, you could make the most legendary witcher. Not because of your strengths, but your heart.”

The silence hangs in the stable, only interrupted by the horses’ occasional snorts and nickers. Finally, Geralt’s features soften, his shoulders relaxed.

“What do you want, Jaskier?” he asks again.

“What I always wanted, and perhaps, what you’ve wanted as well. You see, I can’t help but remember our conversation that night. How neither of us ever really got to see the world.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “So, here’s my offer.”

“Your offer?”

Jaskier knows it’s now or never.

“Come away with me. Let’s see the world together.”

Geralt stares, his soft hazel eyes inexplicable. Jaskier’s heart picks up but he feels like all breaths have left his lungs.

“I mean,” he adds quickly. “If you want, that is. We can be the best duo on the continent. We can travel and sing—well I can sing, and you can show your darling horse all the different kingdoms. What is her name again?”

“Roach,” Geralt offers, his face still impossibly hard to read.

“Yes, Roach. You can show Roach everything there is outside of Posada. It won’t be much, but…I’ll be there. I’ll be your most loyal travel companion and friend, Geralt. I will be there, see everything with you. What you say?”

The anticipation is excruciating. For a moment, Jaskier believes he’s already been rejected by the lack of an answer. They’ve only known each other for days after all. What reason does Geralt have to abandon his life here and run away with a young, hot-headed bard? His heart starts to sink, but then—

Geralt smiles, and nods ever so slightly.

It’s the sweetest sight Jaskier has ever seen. One that, he realizes, will lead to countless more in their coming journeys.

He lets out an excited cry and throws himself at Geralt, only to be caught by sturdy arms. Roach might be judging him with those looks but it’s the last thing in the world that matters. Even Geralt can’t hide the smile in his voice.

Geralt takes a step forward and Jaskier quickly backs away. His hand instinctively reaches down and Geralt feels a little surge of pride – he’s going for the silver dagger he’d gifted the bard months ago, now strapped to his hip. “Look, Sir, ah - whoever you are. I think you’re in the wrong room.” 

Geralt raises his hands in surrender. Jaskier grips the hilt of the dagger and stands a little straighter. “Right. Like I said. Wrong room.” He leans back on one hip and casts an appraising gaze over Geralt’s new body, his expression softening. “Unfortunately.”

Geralt blushes. He can feel his skin growing hot, his ears turning tingling, even his fucking chest. He knows that it’s bullshit that witchers don’t have emotions, but he’s lost that knack at oppressing them. The blush does not go unnoticed, and Jaskier smirks.

“My very large and very strong companion will be returning soon,” he says, lip quirking, “you’re lucky I found you and not him. I think you’ll find I’m far... friendlier.”

He winks. He fucking winks, and Geralt’s face is burning and – 

“Jaskier.” At least his voice hasn’t changed. The smirk slides from Jaskier’s face. “It’s me, Jaskier.”

“… Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice cracks. “No. I don’t believe you.”

“For fuck’s sake. It’s me!”

“Tell me something only you know. Go on.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and takes a step forward. “Jaskier…”

The bard’s hand is back on the dagger before he has a chance to finish the sentence. He relents with a sigh.

“Fine,” he says, keeping his hands raised, “Your real name is Julian. You studied at Oxenfurt. The last time you saw the Countess de Stael you dumped her, but she’s telling everyone it was the other way around. You’ve got a scar on your elbow from a bar brawl, and another on your arse from—”

“Right, okay, thank you. That’s enough.” Jaskier unhands the dagger, and Geralt relaxes a little. “What happened to you?”

Geralt shrugs. “No idea.”

He steps forwards, peering at Geralt’s face with a frown. He reaches up, placing a gentle hand on either side of Geralt’s jaw, moving his head as he examines him.

“This is so weird.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean… it’s you. You look like you, now I know it is you. Just the hair is different.” He pauses, thinking. “And the eyes.” He releases Geralt’s face, and steps back, head tilted to one side. “And the scars.”

He’s right – Geralt turns back to the mirror, staring at his new body. He’s a little slimmer than he was, his muscles not quite as defined, but it’s very clearly him. The scars that marred his skin are gone – he feels oddly blank without them. Untouched. His hair reaches just below his ears, dark brown and slightly curly. His eyes are wide and soft and green, and – he realises with a start – he doesn’t remember what colour they were before the mutations anyway.

Jaskier appears over his shoulder and looks his reflection in the eye.

“Are you… ah,” he begins, nervously, “are you human?”

Geralt turns to him. “I think I am.”

Jaskier swallows. “Right, then.” 

*

They try to figure out what’s happened over breakfast. Geralt picks at his food listlessly – it tastes different in his mouth now, somehow blander. He’s hungry, properly hungry. It’s an unsettlingly human feeling. 

They conclude he must have been cursed; or at least enchanted. Jaskier asks if he’s pissed off any sorceresses lately and the answer is, for once, no. The past few weeks have been rather dull – routine monster hunts, wary townsfolk, thankful aldermen. 

“It’s like those fairy stories,” says Jaskier, thoughtfully chewing on a slice of bacon, “where an evil fairy turns a handsome prince into a monster. Just… the other way around.” He catches Geralt’s expression, and quickly corrects himself; “not that you were a monster before, but you get what I mean.”

They’re more than stories, Geralt knows, thinking back to Nivellen and his cursed castle. “So, what?” he says, raising his newly-perfect eyebrows, “will I be cured with true love's kiss?”

Jaskier chokes on his bacon. “Maybe,” he says, spluttering, “or we can take the Geralt route: find whoever did this to you and hit them until they turn you back.”

“Or we can do that.”

*

Geralt is stubborn, both as a witcher and as a human, and insists on carrying out the contract he’d received before being changed. But it’s hard-going without his supernatural strength, without his Signs. He can’t bolster himself with potions either: they’d kill him instantly. Even the sword feels heavier in his hand.

The contract is for five ghouls, and by the time they’re finally dead he’s broken and bleeding and exhausted. Jaskier too – the fifth had been his, taken down with the silver dagger while Geralt had been struggling with the fourth. They’re both covered in blood. Geralt slumps against a tree stump, breathing heavily. There’s a stabbing pain in his side with every gasp – broken ribs, he thinks. He’s covered in deep cuts and slashes where the ghouls had attempted to rip him apart. It takes Jaskier a full half an hour to get him to move, and he only relents when it’s clear the bard is motivated by real, actual fear. He doesn’t need his witcher senses to see the horror in Jaskier’s eyes when he realises how wounded Geralt is.

He usually tries to avoid healers, often unsure how they’ll react to a witcher, but with his new face they’re seen and treated easily and quickly, the middle-aged woman clucking her tongue at him for being so reckless. 

“We hired a witcher, you know,” she says as she stitches closed one of the tears running across Geralt’s back, “he’d have cleared ‘em out, no problem. No need to go getting yourself hurt.”

Geralt and Jaskier share a look, but don’t say anything.

*

The townspeople continue to treat them kindly. The stares – both fearful and angry – are gone. Jaskier spins some lie about the witcher needing to leave to deal with a matter elsewhere, and Geralt finds himself the centre of attention as the locals praise his bravery for dealing with the ghouls. They even give him the payment for killing the monsters, after a little nudging from Jaskier, and offer him free board until his wounds are healed. 

Geralt wants to move on, to retrace their steps to find whoever cursed him, but Jaskier refuses.

“You’re not a witcher anymore, Geralt,” he says two days later, gently changing the bandages wrapped around his arm, “You need to rest.”

He’s right, of course. Geralt does need to rest. He needs to rest now more than he ever has done before as his body begins to heal itself, painfully slowly. He feels tired all the time, and he’s lost the respite of meditation. He struggles to sleep, despite how exhausted he feels, pressed against Jaskier’s back on the straw bed. The landlord had offered them another room, but he’d said no – refused before he’d even finished the sentence – much to the landlord’s (and Jaskier’s) surprise.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

*

Geralt is hyper-aware of the way Jaskier is looking at him now. He can’t decide if the bard is being more attentive than usual. He's always followed him around, washed his hair, bound his wounds. When he gently cleans at the deep gash on his arm Geralt peers at him, trying to read his expression, looking for a change.  

When Jaskier had first found him transformed a week ago there’d been a glint in his eye and a swagger to his posture. He’d flirted with him, before he’d realised who he was. Geralt isn’t foolish – he knows his new face is handsome, he knows it’s more appealing than the grizzled visage of a witcher. He catches Jaskier staring at him, sometimes – and there’s a knot in his stomach to go with the blush. Jaskier looks at him, and he knows it’s not him he’s looking at like that. He knows those glances aren’t for him: they’re for the stranger who’s face he’s been cursed with.

There’s another fear, too. He’s still healing, and even when he’s well again he won’t be able to head back out into the wild unknown. He can’t return to witchering until the curse is gone – he’s too vulnerable. Jaskier had attached himself to him all those years ago for the promise of adventure, of wild stories and heroic deeds. He had not signed up to be a nursemaid for however many weeks it takes for human ribs to stitch themselves back together.

Jaskier could just… leave. Geralt won’t begrudge him if he does. He’s a traveller, after all. He must have itchy feet.

By the start of the second week, still trapped in the town which seems to grow smaller by the day, he’s convinced that Jaskier is building up the courage to go. One evening, while the bard tends to the wound on his back, he decides give him his freedom.

“Jaskier,” he says, voice low.

“Hmm?”

“You can leave, if you want.”

Jaskier’s hands freeze on his skin. “I… what?” He sounds hurt. Geralt turns, and his eyes are shining in the dim light.

“You want me to go?” He says, his lips twitching.

No. “I… if you need to.” Geralt sighs. “You came along because you wanted adventures, Jaskier. I can’t give you that anymore.”

Jaskier’s expression cracks – an annoyed smile. “You’re an idiot, Geralt. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But… you’ll get bored, here.”

The bard gestures to the blood-stained cloth in his hand, to the salves on the floor. “Do I look bored, Geralt? Have I given you any indication that I might want to leave?”

“… No.”

“Well, then.” He brandishes the cloth. “Turn around so I can finish.”

Geralt does as he’s told.

*

Two days later, Geralt awakes to find Jaskier already up, bustling around the little room, shoving things in bags.

He heaves himself up, feeling a little light-headed. Human sleep still leaves him with a headache.

“What’re you doing?” He mutters, squinting at him.

“Packing,” says Jaskier, simply. He tosses a shirt towards Geralt, who fails to catch it. “Time to get up. We’re going to get your face back.”

Geralt sits up fully, swinging his legs around. “What?”

“We’re going to sort this...,” he gestures at his face, his body, “... out. We’re going to get you un-bespelled.”

“But—”

Jaskier pauses in his packing and raises his eyebrows at him, a pair of trousers held in his hands. “But what?”

Geralt doesn’t have a reasonable response. Jaskier frowns at him, then continues to pack as Geralt hurriedly gets dressed.

“We’re retracing our steps,” he says as he slots his lute back into its case, “going back to the last village. Someone, somewhere will know what to do.”

They head out within the hour. Roach is antsy after so long cooped up, but she seems to recognise Geralt immediately, pressing her nose into his hand with a soft huff. Feeling unusually charitable, he lets Jaskier ride her while he walks at her side. Within a few hours, he’s feeling guilty about how much he makes Jaskier walk.

They reach the next village before the sun sets. There’s no inn here, but a gracious farmer recognises Jaskier and lets them sleep in his barn. Geralt is sure they wouldn’t have been afforded the same hospitality had he still looked like himself. In the tavern that night they ask around the villagers if anyone has seen anything unusual – Jaskier even going so far as making up a story about needing to see a witch or mage – but no one has anything to tell them.

Geralt can’t help but feel demotivated by the ordeal, but the villagers continue to treat him kindly. Within half an hour of their arrival there’s a gaggle of women leaning on the bar, watching him beneath their lashes. For once, there’s no one hurrying them along, no one telling them to keep away from the witcher. One of them approaches him, smiling, but for once he isn’t interested. 

The landlord has heard that Geralt is the one who killed the ghouls in the next town, and keeps him in beer for the night. When Jaskier returns to him with no information to share, Geralt looks up at him with a lopsided grin.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt,” laughs Jaskier, pulling his tankard from his unresisting hands, “are you drunk?” 

He gets him to his feet and leads him, a little unsteadily, back to the barn where they’re spending the night. Geralt lies on the hay, staring at the ceiling. It smells of sheep.

“Jaskier.”

The bard plops down on the heap of straw next to him, their shoulders brushing together. “Yes?”

“What if I can’t change back?”

Jaskier props himself up on one elbow to look at him. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“But what if I can’t?”

He shrugs. “Then… I don’t know, Geralt. I suppose you’ll have to get a real job. Imagine! How awful.” 

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Will you…” he swallows, his head thick, “will you stay?”

Jaskier laughs, and up in the rafters an owl hoots balefully. “Of course I’ll stay, Geralt. Someone has to teach you how to be human, after all.”

Geralt knows he’s drunk. That’s why he can’t stop talking. “And if I change back?”

He sighs. “And what if you change back?”

“Will you stay?”

Jaskier sits up, crossing his legs, peering down at him. 

“What’s wrong, Geralt? Tell me.”

He can feel his infuriating human body blush. Jaskier gazes down at him with a soft expression, and brushes aside Geralt’s dark hair, getting a better view of his face. 

“I’ve seen how you look at me,” Geralt says, closing his eyes, “Now I’m…” handsome, desirable, “… normal.”

Jaskier laughs again – but his voice is sad. “Oh, Geralt,” he says, “you’re anything but normal.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m not leaving. Whether you’re a witcher or a human.” Geralt feels the straw sag next to him as Jaskier lies back down. “Go to sleep,” he says.

Geralt closes his eyes. It’s a long time before he finally drifts away.

*

They move on from the next village early next morning, and there’s a pounding in Geralt’s skull. 

Jaskier has graciously allowed him to ride Roach and is walking at his side in contemplative silence. He’s been very silent, this morning. Geralt thinks back to their conversation in the barn – to his drunken rambling. He feels like an idiot.

He’s about to say something when Jaskier speaks first.

“Geralt.”

“Hmm?”

“Last night. I… look, I don’t want you to get all stoic on me, and I know that it’s hard for you with all these new emotions and whatnot. So. Just listen.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, and Jaskier continues.

“I can’t lie to you, Geralt—” Geralt snorts at that, and Jaskier continues with a little grin, “Okay, I can lie to you, but I’m not going to. Not right now, anyway. Yes, this new look you’ve got going on is very… nice. And I… I like it.” He swallows heavily, and his ears have gone pink. “But… Gods, Geralt, do you really think me so vain that I’d leave you if you went back to the way you were?”

“I—”

“Because I’m not going to leave you. Okay?”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Psh, Geralt, you’ve insulted me more times than I can count. What’s one more? I just wonder… Geralt, do you want to turn back? Or do you prefer it this way? Because if you do, then—”

“I don’t know.”

Jaskier falls silent.

“The villagers treat me with kindness,” he says, slowly. “No one is scared of me. I don’t get stones thrown at me in the street.” He stares at the road ahead, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. “And… I like the way you look at me. When I’m like this.” 

At Roach’s side, Jaskier trips over his own feet. “Oh,” he says. “Right.”

*

They stop to rest a couple of hours later, looping Roach’s reins over the branch of a low tree. It’s a lovely part of the world – all rolling fields and flowers. Above them, trilling birds whirl through the sky. Geralt is peering across the landscape, frustrated with his useless human eyes, when Jaskier appears at his side. He leans into him, bumping him with his shoulder.

“Geralt.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to do something,” he says, quickly, “but I need you to know that it’s not because of,” he gestures at him, “all this. It’s because of you.”

“What are y—”

His words are smothered under Jaskier’s lips. He’s startled, at first, but Jaskier’s lips are soft and supple and he finds himself kissing him back, gripping Jaskier’s waist and pulling him closer. Jaskier moves his hands upwards and tangles them in his hair. There’s a swirling, intoxicating feeling in his stomach, his skin tingling. He deepens the kiss, tasting Jaskier’s lips with his tongue, who softly gasps against his mouth.

“Geralt, I—” he pulls back, his eyes dark, then freezes. “Oh, gods, Geralt.”

“What?”

Jaskier unhands him suddenly, looking panicked. He begins to dig through his bag, still slung over his shoulder, searching for something.

“What are you—”

Jaskier holds something up. It takes Geralt a moment to register what it is: a mirror. He snatches it from Jaskier’s hand and stares at his reflection.

White hair. Yellow eyes. A scar, long-healed, dragged down his face.

“Fuck,” laughs Jaskier, breathlessly, “You fucking told me. That first day.”

“Told me what?”

“True love’s kiss.”

Geralt’s laughing too, now - but before he can respond, Jaskier is pressing another kiss to his mouth, his hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. 

---

There had been several distinctive changes to Geralt’s physical body after the second round of experimental Trials; his hair, of course, and his ghostly-pale skin were the most obvious. His greatest secret, however, and the strangest of all the Trials’ side effects, were the temporary changes he underwent on the nights of the new moon. His Witcher strength and senses abandoned him and his body returned to its pre-Trial state. He became, for all intents and purposes, a normal human man. 

He hated it. He hated himself. There was no power behind his punches on his human nights and while he remained graceful and competent with his swords, he lost his speed and dexterity. It left him feeling helpless and alone, and an onslaught of emotions (which he was usually able to suppress or ignore) flooded his mind, pulling tears from his eyes and putting a ruddy redness on his cheeks and ears that he found ugly. No doubt Jaskier would find him just as hideous. And useless…

If he couldn’t protect the bard, the handsome young human who smiled at him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be friends with a Witcher, then what good was he? Keeping Jaskier safe, keeping him alive and smiling like that, was what motivated Geralt to slump his way back to their room even when he wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground and pass out from exhaustion. Making sure Jaskier was okay (and, alright, getting his wounds fawned over and his hair washed wasn’t too bad either) was what kept him alive.

I can’t believe I forgot to keep track, Geralt berated himself as he set up his small campfire just inside the mouth of a cave. I almost revealed my secret to Jaskier. 

Geralt wasn’t sure which outcome he feared more: Jaskier seeing him in his less horrible state and rejecting him completely for keeping secrets/being a true monster, or Jaskier finding his human body attractive and being even more disgusted by his Witchery appearance. Geralt wouldn’t be able to stand either outcome, so he disappeared into the woods or back to the Path (if Jaskier was stuck in a town, teaching or performing) whenever the night of the new moon arrived.

He sighed and crossed his legs, resting his elbows on his bent knees and setting his chin on one upright palm. He glanced up at Roach and grumbled out an excuse: “I just don’t want to lose him.”

Roach whinnied quietly, reproachfully, and Geralt nodded. 

“You’re absolutely right, I should tell Jaskier about all of this, but if I tell him now, after travelling together for so long, he’ll think I don’t trust him. And I do trust him! I trust him as much as I trust my brothers, maybe more considering their pranks… But I don’t want to scare him off, either. I’m such a fucking coward.”

As the last light of day slipped away beneath the horizon and darkness fell, Geralt felt his hair grow coarser and heavier atop his head. His eyesight dimmed and his knowledge of the landscape - every scent and sound - disappeared from his consciousness. The scars on his skin faded away into nothing as his pupils dilated into circles, the irises shifting from honey-gold to a deep, forest green. 

From a nearby bush, Geralt heard a familiar voice mutter, “Holy shit.”

He leapt to his feet and backed against the cave wall, throwing his arm across his face to hide it. “Dammit, Jaskier, I told you to stay at the inn!”

The bard took a nervous step forward, away from his hiding place, and waved bashfully. “Sorry, dear heart. Are you really- is it really you in there, Geralt?”

“Yes?” the Witcher-turned-human raised an eyebrow, lowering his arm back down to his side with no small amount of shame. “Who else would it be?”

“Well,” the bard said, taking a measured step forward. “I wasn’t sure if this was, like, a reverse-werewolf type deal. I didn’t know if you’d have the same memories as before or- or if-”

“It’s still me,” Geralt blushed, actually blushed, and dipped his head down to avoid Jaskier’s curious gaze. “I’m sorry for not telling you before, but-”

“Don’t.”

Geralt glanced back up, even more confused, his emotions playing havoc with his pulse. “I- Don’t I owe you an apology?”

“No,” Jaskier said, settling down on the rocky ground across the fire and gesturing for Geralt to join him. The flames lit up his face, highlighting the roundness of his cheeks and the softness in his eyes. So youthful, yet so determined. “If you’re still Geralt in here” - he tapped the side of his head and grinned playfully - “then you’re still my best friend.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh yeah, my Witcher is definitely in there somewhere,” Jaskier laughed brightly. The sound wound down and he wiped a tear of glee from the corner of his eye. After a long, sobering pause he asked: “So is this what you looked like before… they did all that stuff to you?”

“Before the Trials? Yes. This is what I looked like fifty years or so ago, when I was young and mortal. My shoulders are wider, of course, but that’s just old age.”

Jaskier made his way slowly around the fire, inching closer to Geralt, who had finally taken a seat on his bedroll. When the bard was right next to him, close enough for Geralt to feel their combined body heat through his shirt, he took a lock of Geralt’s hair in his hand. “It’s… it’s not as soft, like this. But it has curls! And it’s almost red!”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier looked overjoyed at the change, and every one of Geralt’s fears flashed before his eyes. He was tempted to wrench away, to fling himself up into Roach’s saddle and ride hard until they both needed a rest. 

But Jaskier had begun talking again, and Geralt did his best to pay attention. “It’s different, but not bad. I think you’re only slightly more handsome when you’re a Witcher, but  your eyes are a lovely shade of green and I’d love to do up your hair someday… if you’d like that. If you’d let me.”

Geralt made a startled noise and turned his head sharply, his eyes boring into Jaskier’s very soul. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course!”

“You don’t- you aren’t mad? Or scared? You don’t think I’m more approachable like this? You wouldn’t prefer me to be like this - like a human - all the time?”

Jaskier shook his head, a sadness Geralt often noticed but didn’t understand falling over his face. “Oh Geralt, you silly, silly, wonderful man. I don’t lo-” - he paused, took a deep breath, and continued - “I love you, okay? As a Witcher. Like this. I have always loved you and I will always love you, regardless of what you look like, but I fell in love with the White Wolf. The man whose reputation needed mending and whose heart… whose heart is so incredibly large despite how often the world tries to harden it.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped. He clutched at his chest, the ache he felt there intensifying a hundredfold under Jaskier’s steady gaze. “I love you, too. I never thought-”

“You often don’t,” the bard teased, closing the space between them with careful, intentional slowness. “Now, keep up the good work and stop thinking entirely. Just kiss me, Geralt. Please?”

“Would you like it if I kissed you?” the Witcher asked, incredulous. Jaskier lifted one delicate hand and slid a lock of Geralt’s curly hair back behind his ear. He pressed a soft kiss to Geralt’s cheek and smiled. 

“Very much, darling.”

“Alright,” Geralt breathed, closing the space between them. It felt so much more intense like this, with his heart beating as quickly as Jaskier’s, threatening to burst from his chest because it was overflowing with happiness. His hand, smooth and unblemished in its current state, cupped the peach-soft skin of the bard’s cheek. He ran his thumb over the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw, feeling the bone and joint working as their mouths moved together. When they finally pulled apart they were both beaming broadly, “Was it okay?”

“You’re very soft like this,” Jaskier noted. “But I miss your eyes and your hair… when will my Geralt return?”

“I’m still yours, Jaskier. Even when I look like this,” Geralt frowned. Jaskier took one of the Witcher’s hands in both of his and held it flat over his heart.

“I know, my dear. And I’m always yours, of course. It’s just… odd. I’ll get used to it the more often I see it, I’m sure. How long does it usually last?”

“I’ll be back to normal when the sun rises.”

“Until then?”

“Come here,” Geralt held up the corner of his blanket. Jaskier shifted so that they were cuddled together, side-by-side. “Better?”