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When they accidentally stumbled upon the mage that’d been terrorizing the Continent, Geralt knew something bad was going to happen. He could feel the power under her skin, and her eyes were scarily blank as she looked at him.
She’d gotten quite the reputation for cursing folks across the Continent, seemingly for no reason at all. She had even cursed a few children; evidently her cruelty knew no bounds. Geralt hadn’t been searching for her when they crossed paths, deep in the woods, but letting her go wasn’t an option. One, she would never let him or Jaskier just go. Not without a fight, or cursing them.
Secondly, Geralt had seen some of the consequences of her spells firsthand and he was angry.
“Go,” he hissed at Jaskier without looking. Jaskier hesitated, like he always did, before finally turning and running off, disappearing between the trees with his lute thumping against his back.
Satisfied, he turned back to her.
She was pretty, as were most mages, but no amount of charcoal and crushed berries, or even magic, could truly hide her ugliness.
“You look angry,” she mused, eyes widening. She looked like she wanted to laugh, mouth curling at the corners.
Geralt unsheathed his sword quickly, pointing the blade at her. She didn’t even look mildly surprised, and definitely didn’t deny any of it.
“You cursed them,” he said, evenly. “Why?”
Geralt hoped she would show even the tiniest ounce of compassion or guilt. He could do something with that, but—there was nothing. She smiled fully, eyes sparkling.
“For fun, obviously,” she replied breezily. “Is that not reason enough?”
Geralt frowned, knowing what he needed to do. There would be no stopping her, not while she still had breath in her lungs. He rushed forward, clutching his sword, as she laughed, bouncing away.
He relied on his speed, dancing around her, knowing her magic outweighed his strength. But if he kept moving, kept striking, she wouldn’t have time to cast anything.
She jumped back, glaring at him. “You’re wasting your time,” she said, smiling nastily. “Your bard has already—”
He growled, consumed by an animalistic rage. “Don’t,” he said, a warning.
“Did you even stop to consider why I was here?” she mused, undeterred by his warning. She gestured around. “In the middle of nowhere? I was setting a trap. Your little bard just stumbled upon it.” She grinned, showing perfectly even teeth. “I expected a random traveler to find it. What a surprise, to have the renowned bard, Jaskier, friend of the White Wolf—”
Geralt’s anger was almost too much, blinding him. “Shut up!” he snapped through the rushing in his ears, charging her again.
She was probably lying, he knew, trying to get him worked up. She needed him to make a mistake—a big one—if she wanted a chance of overpowering him. But he wouldn’t. As he charged, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax.
Jaskier was fine. Jaskier was fine. Geralt lifted his sword, aimed at her neck. He had to be fine.
She threw her hands up, fingertips glowing with magic, but there was nothing she could do. He was too close, too fast. She was too slow. His sword plunged through her neck and she gasped, birds flapping away. Geralt stood there for a moment, pushing the sword deeper before he was satisfied. Yanking his sword out, she slumped to the ground, limp and unmoving. He could no longer hear her heartbeat.
He nudged her with his foot, once, just to be sure, before turning and running through the woods.
*
“Jaskier!” he called, ducking under branches and dancing around trees, searching for the bard. Usually Jaskier never went far, knowing Geralt would come for him after the fight was over. “Jaskier, it’s over!”
Nothing. Not even the familiar sound of crickets. Geralt ran a little faster.
No, no, no. She had been lying, right? She was just fucking with him. Mages liked to do that.
Geralt stopped, finally, taking a deep breath. He closed his eyes, swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Calm down,” he grumbled to himself. “Calm down and listen.”
After a few long seconds of trying to calm down—and failing—, he finally caught it: the thumping heartbeat of Jaskier, a few feet away. His heart was fast, irregular. Not a good sign. Opening his eyes, he took off in that direction, not even caring to push branches out of his way.
His cheeks were scratched, though they’d heal quickly, by the time he found him.
Or—“Jaskier?” he asked, not quite sure what he was seeing.
A child—a boy—stood in the middle of a small clearing. Geralt was bad with ages but he couldn’t be older than five or six. His eyes flickered around and his stomach dropped as he took in the sight. It had to be Jaskier; his lute was there, and he never abandoned it, not even in the face of danger. But what had happened? “Fuck,” he breathed, stepping forward. The fucking mage hadn’t been messing with him.
Jaskier looked up. Geralt stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do.
But then—“Gewalt,” he said before immediately blushing, the brightest red he had ever seen, covering his mouth with his chubby hands. He tried again after a moment, lowering his hands. “Geralt,” he said, looking determined, struggling only briefly with the R. “I’m—”
His voice was high and squeaky. Geralt stumbled forward, kneeling in front of him. “I know,” he interrupted, looking him over.
“Well?” Jaskier prompted, squirming impatiently and stomping his feet. Oddly childlike. “Where is she?”
Geralt opened his mouth, closed it. “I killed her,” he said finally.
He expected Jaskier’s reaction; eyes widening, mouth hanging open. “You—you killed her!” he exclaimed in disbelief, not a sentence you expected to hear from a child. Geralt’s mouth started to twist in amusement before quickly catching himself and stopping it, knowing Jaskier would not appreciate it. “But we need her!”
Jaskier gestured at his own body, small and chubby. He still looked like himself despite that, dark hair and blue eyes.
“Or do you ex—expe—exp—” he stammered, letting out a frustrated sigh when he couldn’t get the word out. “Do you want me to stay like this?”
Geralt reached out for him, hesitating for a second before gently placing his hands on his shoulders, so tiny under his hands. It was surreal, and oddly endearing. “Of course not,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat. “Don’t work yourself up. Any mage should be able to undo it.”
Well, any powerful mage. He smartly didn’t say that, already thinking through their options.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by Jaskier, yanking on his arm. Geralt looked at him. He was pouting, literally pouting. Geralt smiled, just the barest hint of teeth. He was a witcher, okay? Not a monster. “Hey,” he said, placing a hand on top his head and ruffling his hair impulsively. Jaskier’s eyelashes fluttered, like he enjoyed it more than he cared to admit. “We’ll find a mage and they’ll fix this, okay? Even if we have to pay an arm and a leg.”
Jaskier nodded. “You mean it?”
“Do you think I want a toddler for a travel companion?” he deadpanned, honest.
Jaskier kicked, suddenly, at his shin and he cursed, holding him back. “This is your fault!” He tried to kick again, but couldn’t reach, giving up with a huff.
*
At first Jaskier—and Geralt, by extension—thought the spell just affected him physically. But, of course, things were never so easy.
After traveling for a few hours, Geralt suddenly stopped and looked down at him.
“What?” he barked with a frown.
His lute was on Geralt’s back, an odd sight. “We should stop for the night,” he said finally.
Jaskier squinted at him, tilting his head back. “What?” he repeated, glancing around at the darkening woods, stomach lurching. He didn’t understand why but he really, really didn’t want to sleep out here. “But—”
“You’re tired,” he interrupted bluntly, but not unkindly. “We should rest.”
It was true; Jaskier was exhausted, and far quicker than he would’ve been under normal circumstances. But there was absolutely nothing normal about their current situation. They were both perched on Roach, with Jaskier in front of Geralt, because he had almost fallen off when they dumbly put him on the back like he usually rode.
“We can keep going,” he argued weakly.
Geralt sighed again as he climbed down, scooping Jaskier off the back of Roach like he weighed nothing, putting him on the ground. Geralt had always been big to him, despite their similar height, simply because of how broad and muscular he was, but right now he looked like a literal giant, towering over him. Jaskier would’ve been terrified if he didn’t trust him so much.
“Even if we continued, now, we wouldn’t hit town until morning. Might as well rest.”
Jaskier knew he was right, but—one look at the sky and his stomach was churning again. He shuffled his feet. Thankfully the curse had at least shrunk with his clothes and shoes with him. He didn’t understand why he was so—nervous. Sleeping in the woods was something he did all the time, ever since befriending the other man. Even before then.
Frankly he probably slept in the woods more often than he did in an actual bed.
“Okay,” he said finally. Geralt had been unexpectedly understanding since, well, he’d discovered him like this. The least he could do was not cause trouble.
They found a nice spot, near a river, and Geralt pointed at him with a finger. “Stay,” he said gruffly.
Jaskier would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so unhappy, both with their current predicament and the lowering sun. Instead he simply nodded, watching as Geralt moved around the clearing. First he started a fire, for warmth. Then he grabbed their bedrolls, spreading them out on the ground near the fire. It was all a routine by now but for the first time in a while Jaskier didn’t—couldn’t—help.
Finished, Geralt stepped back. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
And that was the start of Jaskier’s real nightmare. “What?” he asked as he lowered himself to his bedroll. He was so tiny he could crawl inside it all the way, hidden from sight, but he didn’t. Obviously. No matter how much he wanted to.
Geralt grabbed one of his swords. “Are you not hungry?” he asked, and right. This was part of the routine. Jaskier knew that. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, tiny hands curling into fists in his lap.
“But can’t I—” he started to ask, not wanting to be left.
Geralt walked over, kneeling in front of him. “A deer could trample you,” he said, again as blunt as ever. He placed his hand on top of his head, for the second time. Jaskier wondered briefly if he even realized he was doing it. Worst of all, he knew he had a point. He was starving. Even more than usual, like he would start crying if he didn’t eat something soon, an urge he didn’t think he could fight. “I will be able to hear if anything happens, okay? Just stay here.”
Jaskier nodded silently, clutching his shirt. Geralt stood up, gently ruffling his hair, before he disappeared from sight. He waited, as patiently as he could, startling at every sound—a twig snapping, leaves crunching.
He had always been aware of the dangers, certainly, of sleeping in the woods. Beasts and thieves alike, but he had never been so paranoid before. He scrambled over to his lute, propped against a tree, and plucked at the strings, not really playing anything but just needing the distraction. His fingers were far too weak, and small, to play anything.
Jaskier realized the sun was gone, completely, after just a few minutes of Geralt’s departure. He whimpered, biting the inside of his cheek.
That’s when he realized, finally, what was really happening: he wasn’t paranoid. No, he had felt paranoia before and this wasn’t it. He knew this feeling. He was scared. And not just of the potential threats of the night, but the darkness of night, closing in around him, slowly painting everything black. He tried to focus on the fire, on the only thing he could see.
But then—a powerful gust of wind carried through and his only comfort was taken away.
Jaskier whimpered again, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. Roach snorted, but it sounded surprisingly distant. “Stupid,” he muttered, “stupid, stupid, stupid,” he repeated, burying his face in his knees. He had never been scared of the dark before, not even when he was a child himself.
But apparently the mage had decided simply de-aging him would be too easy.
*
Geralt returned with a deer slung over his shoulder. He was a few feet away when he noticed the fire was out and he started to walk faster, preparing for the worst. But then—he saw him. Even in the dark he could see him, a benefit of his mutations. He was curled up on his bedroll, shoulders trembling.
“Jaskier,” he called through the darkness, wondering if he was hurt. Closer, he could hear his heartbeat, frantic and irregular. Jaskier sat up as soon as he heard him, loudly sniffing and wiping at his eyes.
Geralt dropped the deer and rushed over, crouching in front of him. Jaskier’s cheeks were still damp despite his efforts of drying them and his eyes—there was no hiding he’d been crying, swollen and bloodshot.
“What?” he replied, clearing his throat. “Did—did you get food?”
Geralt blinked. “Jaskier,” he said. “You’ve been crying.”
Jaskier stiffened, his tiny shoulders hunching up to his ears. “Nuh-uh,” he said simply. “I’m fine.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked, undeterred by his protests, looking him over. He reached out for his leg, but Jaskier quickly pulled away from his touch. When he looked up, Jaskier was watching him with a frown.
“I’m fine,” he repeated stubbornly, even as he sniffled again.
Geralt glanced back at the remnants of the fire, at the dark sky, slowly connecting the dots. He was an idiot. “Okay,” he said, looking back at Jaskier. “I shouldn’t have left you like that,” he said, cutting Jaskier off before he could say anything. “It’s the dark, right?”
He knew Jaskier didn’t normally have a problem with it, but he was stupid to think the mage’s curse had been so simple-minded. She wouldn’t get a kick out of simply de-aging a man. She would want them to suffer.
Jaskier stiffened again, looking away. “No.”
Geralt sighed, leaning back. “Jaskier, you don’t have to lie to me.”
And the worst part was—Jaskier knew that. He believed him. They had gotten closer over the years, especially ever since they had reunited after their separation on the mountain. Geralt had started making an effort to be nicer, more honest, ever since their reunion. Jaskier was always honest, maybe too honest. He didn’t know why he was fighting this so hard. Or maybe he did; he just didn’t want to admit it.
Looking up, he sniffed again. Geralt stared at him, a crease between his eyes; the only visible indicator that he was worried. Jaskier had learned so much about him over the years—decades.
He had also worked hard, over the more recent years, to be worthy of him—to be stronger, more of an asset. He knew how to wield a dagger, now. A dagger that was way too big and heavy for his clumsy, tiny hands.
Now he had regressed; Geralt was having to care for him like he was a baby. Because fuck, he was. And now he knew it wasn’t just some stupid physical thing.
Jaskier’s vision blurred; he realized, vaguely, that his eyes were watering again. He was stupid and weak, and Geralt should just abandon him.
“Jaskier,” he heard through the rushing in his ears. “Jaskier, hey. Don’t—don’t cry, okay?”
He felt a hand on his head again, fingers combing through his hair. He blinked a few times. Geralt was watching him, looking more concerned than before. The most concerned he had ever seen him, maybe. Jaskier wiped roughly at his eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, slurred by the sobs ripping out of his throat.
Geralt stiffened briefly, frowning at him. “What are you talking about?”
Jaskier wiped at his eyes again with the heel of his hands, rough, rough. Geralt suddenly grabbed his wrists, gently, pulling his hands away from his face. Jaskier just sniffed, pressing his lips together. “You—you didn’t sign up for this,” he said, quiet and wet.
“Sign up for what?” he countered, squeezing his wrists gently. But then he was continuing, “After the mountain, Jaskier, who found who?”
Geralt had found him. He had been in a small town, barely surviving, numb, when he showed up. He had saved him from, well, himself. Had apologized, literally on his knees. Had asked him to travel with him again, promising that he would be better.
“I found you because I decided I liked my life better with you in it,” Geralt continued, “and I would do anything, now, to keep you in it.”
Jaskier’s heart soared, even as his stomach squirmed, still not believing it. “What if I’m stuck like this?”
“You’re not,” he replied breezily. His eyes held such conviction. Jaskier smiled a little. “We will find a mage, and they will fix this, okay? Until then… we’ll just have to find a way to deal with this.”
*
Geralt roasted the deer, and they sat around the fire together, eating quietly. Jaskier was starving, but he couldn’t actually eat very much before his stomach felt like it was bursting. Sighing, he extended his stick and offered what was left of the meat to Geralt.
Geralt eyed it. “You sure?”
Jaskier nodded, and he took the stick, finishing it off within seconds.
Finished, Geralt hesitated, staring at the fire. Jaskier knew what he was thinking; a fire overnight was dangerous, letting their location be known and drawing attention while they were at their most vulnerable. Jaskier shook his head and sat a little straighter, forcing the childish fear to the very back of his mind.
“Do it,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
Geralt looked over at him. “No, I just won’t sleep,” he said like that was perfectly reasonable.
Jaskier rolled his eyes and—that’s when he thought of something. When children were usually afraid of dark, what did they do? He shifted over on his bedroll. “Do it,” he repeated, “and come here.”
“Jaskier, I’m not—”
“Please,” he interrupted. He didn’t want them to be targeted because of him, because of what he logically knew was an illogical fear. Geralt visibly hesitated before stomping out the fire. Jaskier’s skin prickled as darkness engulfed them but then—the warmth of Geralt’s body was next to him and he took a shaky breath, focusing on it. “If you laugh at me, l will—” He didn’t know what to threaten. “Just hold me, okay?”
That’s how they slept; with Jaskier wrapped up, safe and tight, in Geralt’s arms. He slept peacefully through the night. He wondered, in the morning, if Geralt had slept as well as him. He didn’t ask.
*
They set off in the morning, though Jaskier didn’t know their destination. He knew they were looking for a mage, but he dumbly—at the time—didn't even consider that mage might be Yennefer. Jaskier found himself squirming by the third hour, still on the road. They had passed two towns already and when pressed for details, Geralt simply said he knew the mages there wouldn’t be strong enough to break the curse, which was—comforting.
“Okay,” Geralt said finally, slowing them. “What is wrong with you? Do you have to piss?”
Jaskier gasped, like that was an entirely unreasonable question. “No!” he exclaimed, looking ahead with a pout. “I’m just—bored.”
He was so bored. He felt like he had too much energy, thrumming under his skin and begging to be released. He couldn’t stop squirming even if he tried to. Geralt let out a huff of laughter. “Seriously?” he asked in disbelief.
Jaskier didn’t know what to say. He assumed this had to do with the curse because, sure, he got bored normally but never like this. Normally he would just grab his lute and play, but that wasn’t an option. He felt like he was going to pop if he didn’t do something.
“Okay, okay,” Geralt said as he stopped them. “How about we stop and—”
Jaskier quickly turned around on Roach, nearly falling. Geralt steadied him. “No!” he said. “We’re so close.” Or he hoped, at least.
“Just for a minute or two,” Geralt assured him as he jumped down. “Let you run your energy off.”
Jaskier sighed, “Okay.” Maybe if he was lucky, he would be so tired after this he could just nap.
Geralt lifted him off Roach and placed him on the ground. They were far from any town or city, following a mostly untraveled dirt path. “Go ahead,” he said when he hesitated, lingering by his feet. “Just don’t go off the road.”
He tried to fight it, legs tingling. But he couldn’t, not for long. He took off running, wind whipping his cheeks until they were pink and sore. He didn’t care; he forgot he was even being watched as he ran up and down the dirt path, kicking at rocks and picking stray flowers.
Spinning around, he lifted one of the flowers. “Look!”
Geralt just snorted, leaning against Roach, arms folded over his chest.
That’s when he saw it—through a thicket of bushes. A flash of red, a fluffy tail. Jaskier took a step toward the woods, dropping the flower. He remembered Geralt’s warning: don’t go off the road. He knew why he had said it; in this form, he could easily be hurt or worse.
But—he couldn’t stop himself, heart pounding, as he impulsively ran after the fox.
“Jaskier!” he heard. “Come back here!”
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He spotted the fox, a few feet away, and ran faster, nearly tripping over roots. He ran and ran. Until—he stopped himself right before he tumbled off a small cliff. Blinking, he turned in a circle, searching for the fox.
No sign of it. No sign of Geralt.
Jaskier whimpered, a lump forming in his throat. He stumbled away from the cliff. “Geralt?”
Nothing, just the distant chirp of crickets. “Geralt!” he tried again, but still nothing. Whimpering again, he slumped to the ground, hugging his knees.
The curse wasn’t even that bad. All he really had to do—until they found help—was fight these stupid impulses and he couldn’t even do that.
Suddenly the trees parted as Geralt pushed his way through. Jaskier gasped wetly, jumping up. “Geralt,” he said. He had never been happier to see him. Geralt took a step forward, eyes flickering to the cliff.
“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out. “Come here.”
Jaskier didn’t know why he looked so nervous. He was fine, especially now that he was here. Smiling, he stepped forward just as the fox jumped out from between some bushes. Jaskier stopped, distracted by the fox.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said, “Jaskier.”
He heard the rumbling before he felt it—
Suddenly the ground was gone beneath his feet. The fox was fast enough to jump to safety, but Jaskier was not. He couldn’t even scream, just squeezed his eyes shut. He prepared for pain, or worse, but all he felt was a pressure on his arm.
Looking up, he met Geralt’s worried eyes. His legs dangled, suspended in the air. “Fucking idiot!” he barked instinctively as he pulled him up by his arm. He fell back on solid ground, pulling Jaskier on top of him. For a moment they just stayed there, both silent and catching their breath.
Finally Geralt sat up a bit, startling when he saw Jaskier’s tear-streaked cheeks.
“Are you hurt?” he asked worriedly.
But Jaskier just lurched forward, wrapping his tiny arms around Geralt’s neck, sobbing openly. “I’m sorry,” he wailed, trembling with his sobs. Geralt just rubbed his back. “I—I tried to listen but—but I just couldn—please don’t be mad at me.”
Geralt blinked once. “Jaskier,” he said as gently as he could. “I’m not mad, okay?”
Jaskier pulled back, sniffing loudly. “You’re—you’re not?” he asked, eyes dark with guilt. “But—”
“I was worried,” he interrupted, pulling him closer again, cradling the back of his head with a soft sigh. “I’m always worried about you,” he continued after a beat, “but right now you are more vulnerable than ever and I need you to listen to me.”
Jaskier nodded against his chest. “It’s just—it’s like I can’t con—control myself,” he admitted, “no matter how hard I try.”
“I know,” he replied, rubbing his back. “We’ll figure something out.”
*
Their solution was simple and to the point: Geralt never let Jaskier out of sight again, not even for a second. Jaskier felt like a child, through and through, being supervised constantly.
“Are we there yet?” he asked as they traveled down the road.
Geralt rolled his eyes. “Almost,” he said for the fifth time. “Be patient.”
A few minutes later, they entered the outskirts of a small town. Jaskier didn’t really understand why Geralt had brought them there, not if they were looking for an exceptionally powerful mage. Most mages lived in the cities, drunk on power and attention.
“Come on,” Geralt said as he dismounted Roach, grabbing Jaskier and tucking him under his arm.
Jaskier squirmed under his arm. “Why are we here?” he asked as they walked through the town, Geralt leading Roach. “Geraltttttt,” he whined, squirming harder.
“This is why,” he said finally, stopping in front of a small cottage. Very quaint, very unsuspecting.
Jaskier blinked, still not understanding, as Geralt set him on the steps of the cottage before tying Roach to the post out front. Finished, he picked him back up, no longer tucked under his arm but perched on his hip. Jaskier preferred being held like this.
Geralt knocked once before the door opened with a creak. Jaskier couldn’t believe he hadn’t connected the dots yet. Of course it was her.
“Yen,” Geralt greeted tersely.
She stared at Jaskier. “Seriously?”
*
Jaskier sat on the floor of the kitchen, glaring at the doll Yennefer had dropped in his lap when she had returned to the room. It was a raggedly doll, a girl, with dark hair and an odd twist to her chin.
“Hmm,” she said after Geralt had explained everything, looking at Jaskier through a piece of glass. “It’s strong,” she remarked finally, lowering the glass, “but I can probably break it.”
Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. Geralt leaned on the table. “You can?”
“I will need time,” she said, “and ingredients.”
Geralt nodded quickly. “I’ll pay for all of it,” he said breezily, and—Jaskier smiled, ducking his head. The easiest way to know Geralt cared about a person? If he paid for them, or bought them anything. He was quite stingy with his money.
Yennefer arched a dark eyebrow. “Okay,” she said, eyes flickering back to Jaskier. “You will both need to stay for a few days.”
“We’re prepared,” he replied gruffly.
She didn’t quite smile but it was close enough, a quirk of her lips. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll begin preparations in the morning. The market should have most of what I need.” Yennefer waved her hand lazily toward the door. “Pick any room. You’ll know which is mine.”
Geralt nodded again before he stood up, walking over to Jaskier. “Come on,” he said, offering a hand.
Jaskier scrambled to his feet, taking his hand. They left the kitchen and walked down the hall. Geralt skipped one of the doors, his nose twitching at the potent scent of lilac and gooseberries. Jaskier barely even realized he had the doll tucked under his arm until they were secured in one of the many rooms.
Geralt only seemed to notice the doll once they were both under the blanket.
“Really?” he asked with a hint of amusement.
Jaskier flushed, clutching the doll. “Shut up.”
*
Jaskier slept through the morning, and then through noon, and only woke up when Geralt shook him awake. He blinked, staring up at him. He realized, too late, that he had drooled on the pillow and was still clutching the doll. Thankfully Geralt barely even seemed to notice, or care.
“Up,” he said curtly. “Yennefer thinks she can do it.”
Jaskier sat up quickly, wiping at his mouth. “Already?”
He shrugged, mouth a thin line. He didn’t look very confident, and so Jaskier didn’t feel very hopeful. “She just said to wake you up,” he said gruffly. “Come on.” His eyes flickered briefly to the doll and Jaskier would’ve been embarrassed if it wasn’t for the twitch of his mouth, a brief smile. “Might want to lose the doll or you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Jaskier blushed, tossing the doll and immediately feeling bad for it. He assumed that was also a part of the spell. Dolls aren’t sentient, stupid. He scrambled out of the bed, trembling with excitement. He hoped Yennefer knew what she was doing.
Geralt led him out of the room, a hand on his head. Yennefer was standing in the kitchen, table shoved out of the way and a sigil drawn on the floor with chalk.
She smiled slightly at him. Jaskier couldn’t remember her ever smiling at him like that before. Perhaps this curse had some upsides.
Suddenly he remembered—having overheard a few of her conversations—more like arguments—with Geralt—her desire for children and froze, feeling surprisingly guilty. Geralt looked at him oddly, pushing him into the kitchen.
“Stand here,” she said once he was close enough, moving him to the middle of the sigil. His skin prickled.
He looked over at Geralt. “Just listen to her,” he said gruffly. Geralt cut his eyes at Yennefer. “You do know what you’re doing, right?”
Yennefer just rolled her eyes, flickering her hair back over her shoulders. “Don’t insult me,” she said sharply. “If this doesn’t work, he’ll be fine. There’s no reason not to try.”
Geralt turned back to Jaskier and nodded curtly, a silent comfort. Jaskier took a deep breath, tiny lungs filling before releasing again. “Okay. I’m—I’m ready.”
“Good,” she said, turning away. She pulled something out of a basket on the table before spinning back around. Jaskier blinked at the flower, bright and glittering. “Hold this.” He took it, admiring the petals. He had always had an appreciation for flowers. “Do not—” she said firmly “—drop it until I take it back, okay?”
Jaskier nodded slowly, clutching the flower.
He could see Geralt off to the side, tense as he’d ever seen him, arms folded over his chest.
“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath, pushing her shoulders back. Jaskier stared up at her—definitely not something he was used to—and counted the seconds. Until, well, until he stumbled over a number twice and realized he was stuck. Gods, he was tired of this. Her lips parted with a soft smack and started to mutter something under her breath.
His eyes cut over to Geralt, again. He was even tenser, mouth a thin line as he watched them.
Yennefer’s fingertips started to glow. Jaskier stared at them, entranced. Her voice got louder, clearer. The air around them suddenly felt thick.
Jaskier felt it, first, in the pit of his stomach. An uncomfortable squirming. He squeezed the flower harder. Don’t drop it, don’t drop it.
“Jas—” he heard from off to the side, but Yennefer shook her head and Geralt’s mouth snapped shut.
She continued for what could’ve been minutes or an hour. Jaskier wasn’t sure. The squirming started up in other places, the soles of his feet, the bottom of his spine. His heart pounded crazily in his chest.
Suddenly he could feel nothing. No pain. Absolute numbness all over.
Jaskier blinked, looking down at himself. He was still in the body of a small boy—
All he remembered next was blackness, inching in from all around him, dancing at the corners of his eyes. The feeling of falling, weightless for a few seconds. Dropping the flower, he was hit with a surge of guilt, deep in his chest.
Sorry, Yennefer.
*
Jaskier groaned, opening his eyes just to close them again. “Why—why is it so bright?”
He felt a hand on his arm. Definitely not Yennefer’s; it was too rough, too big. He turned his head, opening his eyes just a crack. Geralt was sitting on a stool by the bed, face twisted in concern. He had never seen him look so concerned, just like he had never seen him look so tense earlier. He smiled, unable to help himself.
“You fucking scared us,” were the first words out of his mouth, gruff and soft all at the same time. “You’ve been asleep for three days.”
Jaskier took a deep breath. “I’m—me again, right?”
He knew the answer when Geralt smiled, just a small curl of his lips. “You’re you,” he confirmed with a hint of fondness.
“Oh,” he breathed in relief. “Thank the Gods.”
Geralt snorted, leaning forward on the bed. He looked terrible, frankly, dark bags under his eyes, hair stringy from grease. “I think you mean Yennefer,” he said with a quirk of his eyebrow.
Jaskier waved him off. He was surprised by how weird it felt to be back in his body, but he was endlessly grateful. Even though he’d never say it in so many words because it was Yennefer. “Your hair,” he croaked. “You should really wash it.”
Geralt’s following laugh seemed to surprise even himself. “I was a little distracted,” he replied dryly. His expression shifted quickly, back to one of the concern. “We really thought you weren’t going to wake up, Jaskier,” he said. “She—she thought the spell had gone wrong.”
“It didn’t,” he said softly. Because it hadn’t; he was still here. Reaching out, he placed his hand on top of Geralt’s, still on his arm. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
Geralt just stared at him like he couldn’t quite believe it yet.
*
They left Yennefer’s a few days later, once they were certain Jaskier was healthy. Jaskier stood in front of her, unsure of what to do, until she suddenly hugged him. “Don’t get cursed again,” she said in his ear.
He pulled back with a lopsided grin. “I’ll try, but at least I always know we have you to fix our problems.”
Yennefer just rolled her eyes. Jaskier walked away when Geralt stepped up to say his goodbyes, watching from afar. They didn’t hug, or kiss, or anything like that. Jaskier felt weirdly relieved, and maybe a little guilty.
On their way out of town, Jaskier went to grab his lute, accidentally pulling something out with it. He squinted at the doll at his feet. Geralt tugged on Roach’s reins, slowing down.
“Is that—?”
Jaskier grabbed the doll and shoved it back in his bag. “She’s the worst,” he grumbled with no real heat.
Later, after they had set up camp for the night, they settled down around the fire, eating quietly. Jaskier had so much to say and yet for once words were failing him. Geralt kept glancing at him, so he assumed he also had stuff he wanted to say.
“Thank you,” he said finally, blunt and to the point.
Geralt blinked once. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said gruffly, looking at the fire. “I would do it again, as I’m certain you would do the same for me.”
Jaskier nodded, staring at the side of his face. “I would do anything for you,” he said, a little too close to the truth.
“Yeah?” he asked, eyes flickering over to him.
Jaskier’s heart was beating crazily in his chest. He wondered if Geralt could hear it. Probably. He smiled slightly, scooting closer just to nudge him with his elbow. Geralt snorted, nudging him back. Sighing, he drew his knees up and turned back to the fire. He had so much he wanted to say, but—well, what was the rush? He was back in his body, and they were both safe, and he would be much more careful not to get cursed again in the foreseeable future.