#statue geralt

“You visit often but you never look around,” the woman remarked, her own gaze equally fixed on the marble figure. “You always choose to stand here, out of the way of the crowd but always within view of this particular statue. You keep your arms crossed and that same sad scowl on your face, staring for hours at this reclining demon carving. What is it about this statue that drives you to brood so violently?”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied. Usually stoicism got him some peace and quiet.

The strange woman was not dissuaded; she continued to talk, almost as if she was carrying on the conversation with only herself as a partner: “He reminds me of someone. An old museum employee, actually, who mysteriously disappeared one night and never returned. Not even to pick up his last paycheck, although that went missing, too. Gone right out of the mailbox without a solitary flicker of an image on the security camera. Do you know anything about that, Broody Bunch?”

“No,” he muttered. “Why are you talking to me?”

The woman gave a slow, quiet half-smile. “So you used to be a demon, huh? That used to be you up there?”

Geralt’s head snapped to the side. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Punky Broodster,” the woman smirked, looking him in the eyes now. “You were the demon from before, weren’t you? You fell in love with him.”

“I just needed him to say the words to lift the curse,” he huffed. “Now, as repayment for his kindness, I’m keeping him safe.”

“Admit it, child of darkness. You can tell me if you miss him. You can whisper to me that you yearn to hear his voice and feel his touch, freely and without restraint or limitation. You don’t feel like eating or sleeping even though you’ve been dreaming of your potential human life for years. You barely take care of yourself because every moment that passes feels wrong without him in it. Admit it to me, demon, and I will take it as confession.”

“What are you?” 

The woman shrugged again, just as nonchalantly and noncommittally as before, “I am a representative of the Powers That Be.”

“And what do they want with a little ex-demon?”

“It’s not you that I’m here to look after. It’s him.”

“Jaskier?”

“He has a very important role to play,” she stated. “And now you’ve gone and complicated things.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Geralt grimaced. It was never good to upset the Powers That Be. He was about to go from one curse right into another. “I do love, him though. You’re right. And I miss him more than words in any language can express, human or celestial.”

“Good. Then we can get on with it.”

“Get on with what?”

“I’m here to give you the secret to breaking the spell. It’s going to make you laugh, I promise.”

“Hmm?”

“True love’s kiss. You smooch that statue on the lips,” she pointed, “And he’s all yours.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hmm.”

---

Geralt walked across the empty expanse of room; it had looked so much smaller when he was stuck to the pedestal. It seemed to take forever for him to reach the statue now. “I’m so sorry about all of this, Jaskier,” he mumbled as he drew close enough to touch. “I’m so incredibly sorry.”

He leaned forward, pressed his lips to the statue’s, and watched with bright eyes as the dreary grey of carved stone faded to the soft, warm pink of the young man’s skin. “G-Geralt?”

All the ex-demon could do was throw his arms around the human’s slender waist and hold on for dear life. He buried his nose in Jaskier’s soft brown hair and breathed in deeply, so deeply that it pained his lungs to inhale any further. He released it all in a pent up sob, his hands fisting into the material of Jaskier’s scanty toga. 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, over and over like a mantra. He knew he was undeserving. “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. I love you, too. I do. I love you.”

Jaskier was clinging back, crying in tandem and snuffling little hiccups against the side of Geralt’s neck. “I missed you. I saw you keeping an eye on me. I saw you. I knew you’d find a way to get me back.”

“The Powers That Be have great things in store for you,” Geralt smiled. “They couldn’t let my stupidity put out that bright spark.”

The newly hired curator for the statuary portion of the museum followed Yennefer into the next room. but his mind stayed stuck on the mussed stone curls and the manacled marble ankle of the handsome Lucifer. He seemed almost too lifelike to be made of stone. 

Almost, Jaskier thought, jotting down more notes as Yennefer droned on about maintenance schedules and alarm systems, but not quite.

---

“Fuck!” Jaskier cried as he tripped. He fell sideways, slamming into the rope barrier of the Lucifer statue and catching his hand on the sharp edge of one golden clasp. A line of bright red bloomed across the back of his knuckle and he shook his hand on instinct to ease the pain. A few drops of blood flew off; one landed directly on the base of Lucifer’s pedestal. Jaskier licked the wound clean and grumbled, “Oh, shit. I have to clean that up.”

The curator turned to look for a towel or a dust rag or something that could be used to wipe up his little biohazardous mistake and took a few steps away from Lucifer. When he finally located a paper towel and turned to wipe the smear away he nearly passed out. 

Sitting where the statue had been only moments before was a living human person. Well...not human. Not if the two enormous, black leathery wings fluttering gently behind this stranger were real anyway. 

“What the fuck?” he breathed incredulously. “Is this a prank? Am I being punked?”

The statue-person had long white hair that fell in gentle waves to the tops of his shoulders. He had the gold crown and wooden scepter still clutched in his hand and his ankle, now flesh instead of marble, was attached to the base of the statue by a strong steel manacle. The statue-person shifted and the chain jingled quietly, breaking the otherwise fraught silence. 

The statue glanced up and cocked its head to the side. “Where-?”

“Uhm...yes, uh. Hello there, Mr. Lucifer, Sir. I am uh...Jaskier. I’m the night curator at the museum. I’m working on classifying some ancient Roman statuary and organizing an exhibit in a few months. Hello,” the nervous young doctor bowed. “My apologies for the uh...accommodations.”

“You bled for me?” Lucifer blinked owlishly.

“Unintentionally, yes. Oh god, am I going to hell? Am I going to go to hell now because I bled on the weirdly sensual statue of Satan at work!?” Jaskier was close to hyperventilating. The statue-person was watching him with curious yellow eyes. His pupils were slit like a cat’s. “Please tell me I’m not going to hell.”

“Geralt.”

“Wh-What?”

“I’m not Lucifer,” the statue reiterated. “I’m Geralt.”

“Oh. Well they’ve been selling you back and forth between churches for years thinking you were just an incredibly delicious-looking statue of Satan,” Jaskier rambled. His eyes widened and he clapped his hands over his mouth when he realized what he’d said. Geralt, as he was apparently called, was smirking from atop his pedestal.

“I can smell you from here,” the demon (was he a demon?) stated. “No use trying to hide it. I can tell that you’re attracted to me.”

“Well yes. You’re very...attractive,” the curator muttered lamely. There was no excuse; this was a fever dream, anyway.

“Thank you.”

“Mhm. Well, I’m clearly on drugs or lying in a pool of my own blood hallucinating my mortal end because this cannot be happening for real.”

“Well believe me, Jaskier,” Geralt practically purred from his seat across the room. “It is definitely happening. It is definitely real.”

“No. No, thank you.”

“Come here,” the demon ordered, flicking a few of his fingers in a come hither movement. Jaskier crossed the floor against his own will to stand before the mostly naked and very muscular previously-stone man. “Touch me.”

Jaskier’s hand went straight for his pectoral. The statue smirked again, more confidently this time, and placed his warm hand over the panicking curator’s. 

“Calm down, little human. You’re going to pass out if you keep breathing that fast.”

“I- but this- but you can’t-”

Jaskier’s eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped to the floor, still bleeding lightly from his hand. Geralt sighed and rearranged his clothes a little to make them sit more comfortably against his skin. The sun would be rising soon and he would return to carved marble as the curse demanded. Hopefully the clumsy mortal boy would spill his blood here again so they could talk some more; Jaskier was as interesting as he was a danger to himself. 

The demon, for that is exactly what he was, allowed himself to observe the human as he lay, prone and stupid, on the floor before him. His face was peaceful and soft. Cute, the demon decided. He looks innocent and sweet and positively cute.

So helpless. So small. So alone. 

He didn’t know what else he could do to help. He couldn’t reach the phone, chained as he was, and even if he’d been able to reach it he didn’t know which set of numbers would summon aid. All he could do was hold the younger man close to his chest and hum softly into the top of his hair. He’d healed what he could with what little power he still had, but there wasn’t much to do now but wait.

The demon tried to convince himself that he was only worried about Jaskier’s safety for his own sake. If the giddy curator wasn’t there to wake him up and fall in love with him, if Jaskier wasn’t there to say the magic words and switch places with him, then Geralt would lose what was likely his last opportunity at freedom. 

But he knew, deep down, somewhere he was afraid to acknowledge, that he wasn’t doing this for himself at all. His heart wasn’t racing frantically because he feared the loss of his future. His eyes weren’t misty because he wanted freedom from the curse. His hands weren’t smoothing up and down the warm skin of Jaskier’s forearms as he prayed for the boy to live because he was a selfish demon.

No, he was doing those things because he was genuinely concerned about the young human’s well-being.

And wasn’t that a terrifying thought?

The mortal’s fragile body stirred in his arms and a pair of blue eyes blinked up at him groggily. “G-Geralt?” 

“Jaskier! Are you alright? How do you feel?”

“My head hurts. What happened?”

“Thief.”

“Did they get away with anything!?” the curator gasped. He tried to disentangle himself from Geralt to stand but the demon held firm, wrapping his leathery wings around them both like a cocoon. “Geralt, I have to go check on th-”

“He hit you. You fell. You were wounded and it woke me up. I scared him away and I stopped the bleeding on your head, so you should be fine.”

“Oh, goodness, Geralt, I’m so sorry,” Jaskier struggled to sit up on his own but Geralt’s arms remained wrapped around his waist like bars of iron. “Really, I’ll be alright. You can let me up. I should probably check my desk and see if-”

“Just...let me hold you for a moment, please.”

Jaskier settled. An unfamiliar look clouded his eyes and he nodded, leaning himself comfortably against the demon’s chest and closing his eyes.

“Alright, love. But just for you, because you asked so nicely.”

---

Jaskier got to work eventually, filling out and filing a handful of important transfer documents before beginning to type up the pamphlets for a new exhibit on medieval tapestries. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Geralt said, watching the sun begin to rise through the front window. “See you soon.”

“Sleep well, Geralt,” the curator smiled softly. “Thank you for rescuing me. You really are my hero.”

Stay focused, Jaskier reminded himself. He shook his head to clear it and pulled his hand back to give Geralt one of the many cups he’d carried into the museum with him. “This is my favorite so that’s what you’re trying first. It’s a latte, plain and simple.”

“Hmm. Coffee and milk, right?”

“Yes. And exactly what I need to stay up for these night shifts. Sometimes people like to add flavoring; I’m partial to a good hazelnut or maybe some caramel should the mood strike me. Vanilla is for posers and pumpkin spice is fine but not my cup of coffee, ya dig?”

Geralt took a slow sip of the warm drink and smiled. “It’s very good. I, uh, I dig.”

“Alright, mocha next!”

---

“Oh gods, is this what chocolate has become? Fucking Hells,” Geralt drained the entire cup with a few huge gulps and laughed delightedly when he was finished. “You humans are pretty amazing.”

The demon didn’t miss Jaskier’s blush. Or the way he slowly pulled his bangs out of his eyes and adjusted his posture to seem more confident. “I practice, personally.”

“You practice being amazing?”

“Yes. Otherwise I’ll lose touch and then who will bring you coffee at night or sing horrible One Direction covers while you’re trapped as an unmoving stone, victim to my evil unmerciful whims.”

“Is One Direction the one that goes -” and Geralt hummed a bit of the song Jask sang most often while he organized paperwork and school trip request forms. Jaskier smiled and nodded.

“That’s what makes you beautiful,” he said, winking for good measure. Geralt found it odd and perplexing that he had flushed in response to the mortal boy’s flirting. He found it even more frustrating and odd that the boy noticed and then teased him about it. “Ha! Finally I got you back for all the blushing you’ve made me do last time! That will teach you to make fun of me, Geralt!”

“Go do your paperwork,” the grumpy demon huffed over the top of his hazelnut/toasted marshmallow Frappuccino. “And let me enjoy my first treat in nearly five hundred years.”

“That’s a long time to be alone without One Direction or Starbucks.”

Geralt looked up to make a joke in reply but the sad, apologetic look that shone in Jaskier’s soft blue eyes made him pause. He cares, the angel on Geralt’s shoulder reminded him, having suddenly returned from whatever vacation he’d been on last time. He wants you to be happy. He brought you a treat and tried to make you laugh. He is no ordinary mortal; he is Good.

“Fuck.”

“What’s wrong, Geralt?” 

Fuck! He hated how happy the sound of his name in Jaskier’s mouth made him feel. It was sweeter than the chocolate-laced coffee drink. It was sweeter than all the confectionaries of Heaven. It was even sweeter than the angelic choir that sang the Lord to sleep at night. The sound of his name resting on the gentle pink slope of Jaskier’s lips had Geralt nearly in ecstasy. He blinked twice and looked up through his eyelashes at the human, whose heart palpitated in his chest, “Nothing’s wrong, Jask. Just really like this drink.”

“Did you summon me...intentionally?”

“Yes. And I’m sure it won’t be the last time, either. Now, like I said, I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

“You bled for me,” the statue murmured. The statue’s only untethered hand reached out to grasp Jaskier’s. Geralt brought it to his mouth and pressed a burning, slow kiss to the scabbed tip of the human’s finger. When Jaskier pulled it away, mesmerized and blushing wildly, the wound was closed completely. Only a thin line remained where he’d pricked himself with the letter opener from his desk. “I will gladly answer your questions, Jaskier.”

Geralt heard Jaskier’s heart stutter when he said the mortal’s name and couldn’t help but smirk. Perfect. 

“So, I was wondering, what’s...what’s your favorite color? I mean you’ve been alive for centuries and you’ve been in some of the most impressive churches and museums in the world, right? So what painting is your favorite? What’s your favorite color? Why do you like it so much?”

Geralt blinked. That...that wasn’t the line of questioning he’d been expecting at all. He thought Jaskier would be like the rest, curious about the afterlife. Hungry for power. Hungry for forbidden and cursed knowledge. Not - Not a demon statue’s favorite color. He frowned a little, confused as to how he should answer. Jaskier turned back to his desk and began to sort some papers, humming an unfamiliar tune very quietly as he did so.

“Hmm?”

“Take your time to answer; I woke you up first-thing after I clocked in. I figured you needed to sort through a lifetime of experience, so I planned to give you a minute to think it over. We have all night to talk, Geralt. I didn’t mean to be overwhelming and I apologize if that was too many questions at once.”

“You woke me up first-thing?” Geralt asked, feeling dumb for the first time in a millennia. He ignored the rest of the curator’s monologue, focusing only on that one detail. We have all night. He’d given Geralt all night to speak and observe and be alive. 

“Of course!” The bright-eyed mortal turned to face him. “I wouldn’t want to miss a solitary minute of your company! If you ever don’t want me to wake you up again, let me know. Otherwise I rather intended to keep you company on a regular basis.”

“Oh…”

Hmm. Fuck. The only decent human being in a fucking century and I manage to befriend him of all people. Goddamnit. 

“Blue. My favorite color is probably blue, like water.”

Water, and definitely not the shade of your accursedly bright irises.

“Excellent,” Jaskier beamed. “Mine is green, but yellow is a close second. I’m a sucker for a Van Gogh; his yellows are inspired.”

“The style is fascinating but I’m partial to a Monet,” Geralt argued, smiling softly. More softly than he’d intended. More softly than his planned seduction called for. Don’t lose your touch, now. You can get out of here. You can be free. 

“So, is there any way to break your curse? Do your chains have a key?”

“Yes and no,” Geralt lied.

“Alright, shoot.” Jaskier’s arms were crossed over his chest and his butt was pressing against the edge of the desk as he leaned back against it. He looked adorable and so intent. Curious but not greedy. 

“Would you believe me if I told you that Heaven and Hell invented True Love’s Kiss?”

“I might.”

“Well you should. The only way to be free of the curse is true love’s kiss. Second, no. These chains are meant to keep me from leaving the pedestal.”

“Too bad,” Jaskier sighed. “I’d hoped to show you around the rest of the museum. Maybe take you for coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah. Can you like...eat and drink?”

“It will disappear when I turn to stone.” 

“I’ll bring you some coffee  tomorrow, then.”

Geralt felt something strange knock loose in his chest. Something warm and soft that seemed determined to bloom and spread as he watched Jaskier finish sorting his papers. It had reached his fingers and toes by the time they finished discussing impressionism and moved on to Jaskier’s favorite books and Geralt’s favorite eras of history. 

“The Renaissance really was lovely,” he insisted. “But I wasn’t necessarily on board for the entire Enlightenment process. The art wasn’t nearly as good.”

“Jurassic Park is a fucking classic,” Jaskier explained a few long and interesting minutes later, “Jeff Goldblum is one fine piece of Daddy.”

Geralt didn’t need many context clues to understand what that meant. 

The night passed happily and before it seemed entirely possible, that gut-sinking feeling appeared once again. “Fuck. See you tomorrow night, Jaskier.”

“Talk to you tomorrow, Geralt,” the curator tucked a stray white hair back behind the statue’s ear and smiled softly. “I’ll miss you in the meantime.”

Will you? Geralt wanted to ask, honestly curious about the answer. Something odd was happening. Something that was veering him far from the course of his original plan. Will you miss me? Will you think of me in the daylight hours and wish I was there with you? Will I be wishing to be with you? Do I hunger for the sun again, Jaskier? 

Geralt steeled himself and let the stone take him over completely. He had to free himself. Lying about the kiss was the first and easiest step.