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After Jaskier became Geralt’s travel companion, it wasn’t long before he learned about his Witcher’s mutations, and what he went through to become... well, a Witcher; the absolutely agonizing process he underwent as a child to become what he was.
No, who he was.
Not a what.
A who.
That’s who he was to Jaskier. Not a monster, or a beast, or an animal, or anything one would refer to using the word what, but a person. His person.
And Jaskier was horrified to know how much pain his person went through.
He had no idea some of the things he loved so much about Geralt - his white hair, so astoundingly beautiful when it wasn’t covered in the blood and/or guts of monsters, and his yellow eyes, kept in a steely gaze most of the time, but soft when he let them be - were products of what Jaskier couldn’t think of as any less than torture. Of course, he still loved those things about his Witcher - if gazing at his hair and eyes became punishable by death, he’d finalize his last will and testament posthaste - but knowing what he’d gone through to have them, the horrors he was subjected to… it still didn’t sit right with the bard.
So, he did what any other lovestruck bard would do; he resolved to find the most lovely ways to describe those characteristics, and express them to his Witcher as best he could. He may not have been able to reverse all the horrible things Geralt went through, but he could point out the beauty in the features that came from them.
The first time he did this was during a night under the stars. Geralt slayed a monster, as Geralts do, and now, he and Jaskier were on their way back to some unimportant town to collect their coin (and hope that Geralt’s contractor wouldn’t underpay him). Roach was too tired, poor girl, to get to the nearest inn, so the White Wolf and the relentless lark resolved to make camp in a small clearing in the woods.
It was a peaceful night, and thankfully, it wasn’t one that Geralt was going to spend covered in monster guts. The only gruesome… evidence that his target was destroyed lay splattered across his Witcher armor, and such was a problem that was easily resolved by removing it and cleaning off the substance.
“You know,” Jaskier proposed, “I could always make quick work of removing your armor, if you just say the word.”
“No.”
“Well, that’s not exactly the word I was looking for.” Jaskier resigned with a shivering sigh. As peaceful as this night was, the drizzling rain made it a little chilly.
“If you want to make quick work of something, you could make quick work of getting some firewood.” Geralt retorted in that gruff, just-above-a-growl voice of his as his gaze - and his focus - never strayed from his armor.
"Well, I could." Jaskier took his lute off his back and held it in a playing position as he leaned against a tree. “Buuut I’d hate to get sap on my hands, not to mention that your valiant act of Witchery heroism back there left me with quite a bit of inspiration for my next ballad,” he swept his hand out in front of his face as if to visualize the song itself, “yes, “The White Wolf Versus the… the… the Whatever That Monster Was”, so I should probably just get to work on that.”
“It can wait, Jaskier.” Geralt rolled his eyes. Despite the darkness of the night, this was still noticeable thanks to the moonlight. “Unless you want me to make quick work of your lute instead. Should make good enough firewood.”
Jaskier gasped at his incredulous threat (that the Witcher would never actually carry out) and went to gather firewood.
Geralt had a fire going in minutes. Warmth spread around the little camp, and the flame set a soft glow onto everything around it, like Roach lazily chewing on some grass, Jaskier strumming on his not-used-as-firewood lute as he mumbled lyrics-to-be under his breath, and the Witcher himself cleaning and sharpening his swords.
Sitting with his back up against a tree, Jaskier was in the middle of trying to compose the refrain of his ballad-in-progress when he stopped and looked across the camp, laying his eyes on Geralt. He didn’t return the lark’s gaze, apparently unaware of it as he struck one of his swords with a whetstone, but that didn’t stop the ever-so-enamored bard from from staring; Jaskier could barely take his eyes off his hair, especially how the firelight cast an impossibly golden glow on the impossibly white locks. A few of those locks hung loose from the Witcher’s hair tie that held the sides of his hair back, and they instead fell around his face.
“Your hair looks just like starlight.”
The sentence fell from Jaskier’s lips without Jaskier himself putting much thought into it. The little thought that went into what he said was only this; My Witcher may have gone through hell, and his white hair may be but one of the many things he has to show for it, but damn it if I’m not going to tell him it’s beautiful.
Geralt lifted his head and looked in Jaskier’s direction, and the buttercup could tell by his slightly widened eyes and raised eyebrows that he was surprised by the statement. With a painful tug in his chest, Jaskier began to wonder if that was the first time that anyone ever directly complimented Geralt on his hair.
“...Very forward tonight, hm?”
“It’s true!” Jaskier blurted again, “I… I…” He glanced at the cloudless, starry sky for a moment. “I look up at the stars, and as lovely as they are, their light is nothing compared to what I see in your hair. It’s like someone just-”
He reached into the air, grasped at something intangible...
“-took light straight from the stars-”
… pulled his closed hand back down…
“-made it a thousand times lovelier than it already was-”
… and opened it in Geralt’s direction, as if to sprinkle something at him.
“-and put it on your scalp!”
As he said this, watching Geralt’s eyebrows go from a surprised raise to a confused furrow, Jaskier realized this was far less charismatic than the stuff of his songs. That was alright. He’d gladly trade charisma for authenticity; he’d gladly sound like an idiot and be completely, unfabricatingly honest than try to work his feelings into a lyric for the sake of charisma. He was sure that he probably sounded idiotic to Geralt either way, so he might as well sound like an idiot because of something completely from the heart, unhindered by the need for meter or rhyme.
After a moment of stunned silence, Geralt looked back to his sword with a classic hum.
“It’s getting late, Jaskier. You should get to sleep before you start rambling about anything weirder than you already are.”
Yep. Just as Jaskier thought; he sounded like an idiot.
The second time Jaskier pointed out the beauty in what came of Geralt’s mutations was a few days later, and, in very similar fashion to the first one, after he fulfilled a contract. This time, Jaskier stayed at their camp with Roach while his Witcher took care of a… well, he couldn’t quite remember. Bruxa? Kikimora? Wyvern? Whatever it was, he was more than happy to stay behind with Roach when Geralt told him to. The bard saw him swallow down one of his… well, witchery potions before he went out of sight, so he figured that one of two things would happen.
One, Geralt would come back to camp all pale, veiny, and with those pitch black eyes. Sexy.
Two, Geralt would wait until the potion ran its course before coming back to camp, eyes as yellow as usual. Exquisite.
Jaskier, sitting against a sleeping Roach’s belly, didn’t quite have a preference. Black as night, yellow as daylight; as long as Geralt came back in one relatively-uninjured piece, the bard would be content.
As expected, the Witcher came back unharmed. Exhausted in every sense of the word, but unharmed. He huffed as his head hung low, a fitting accompaniment to his sagging shoulders. His hair tie must’ve come loose during his fight with whatever monster he fought, forever lost to the abyss of Geralt’s Fallen Hair Accessories as the mane it was meant to hold back fell all around his face.
“Geralt! You’re back!” Jaskier made no effort whatsoever to keep his joy out of his voice; he wanted his Witcher to know that he was happy to see him return from a hunt. “That beast was no match for a mighty Witcher, eh?”
“Too easy. A waste of a damn potion.” Geralt sighed, lifted his head a bit, and eyed Jaskier with perfectly yellow, non-potioned eyes. Internally, the bard sighed in relief; he had no objections to seeing Geralt while he underwent the effects of his potions, but he also knew how they weren’t the most… comfortable for his Witcher, so he was glad to know that whatever potion Geralt chugged had probably worn off.
“‘S worn off, hasn’t it?”
“Hmm.” Geralt sat on his bedroll. Jaskier was fluent enough in Geralt’s hums to know that was a yes.
“Ah, right. Good. I figured.” he noted with a few nods. “Your eyes are back to normal. All… sunshiney-like.”
Geralt looked at Jaskier again, this time with exasperation. Jaskier didn’t blame him; that wasn’t exactly one of his best-worded compliments.
“Well, they are. They’re like…” The poet looked up at the sky as if to find something better to compare Geralt’s eyes to - as if it were hiding among the stars.
His own eyes lit up when he finally thought of one.
“...Tea! Yes. Lemon tea… with honey!” he smiled to himself. “Ah, that was-”
A loud snore cut him off. Jaskier took his gaze off the night sky and put it on Geralt, who now lay sideways on his bedroll, sound asleep. He must have laid down and passed out for the night, the bard realized with a resigned sigh.
“-That was my favorite drink, back… back in Lettenhove.”
He was going to say “back home”, but he stopped himself. It may have been where he grew up, but his home wasn’t Lettenhove. No, his home lay a few feet away from him, white hair in tangles over his face, yellow eyes shielded by lids that wouldn’t open until morning, and far too exhausted by his fight to take off his armor before he fell asleep.
Jaskier sighed again before he went to his own bedroll and fell asleep for the night.
The topic of Jaskier’s bizarre compliments didn’t make it’s return until the next night, after he and Geralt returned to the town whose monster he slayed. Thankfully, the mayor was rather appreciative of the Witcher’s work - in no small part due to Jaskier’s help in changing his reputation through a certain coin-tossing ballad - and paid him in full. Both Geralt and Jaskier had grown tired of unceasing nights spent in clearings (and Roach was more than content to spend a night in a nice stable) so Geralt spent some of his newly-acquired earnings almost immediately on a room in the town’s inn.
Of course, there was only one bed, but such was rarely a problem for the Witcher and his songbird. The latter snuggled into it almost immediately - promptly after taking off his shoes and doublet, of course - while the former sat in a nearby chair about six feet away and cleaned off his swords. This would’ve been all fine and well, had it not been for the fact that Geralt had already cleaned off his swords first thing that morning; they were squeaky clean!
Jaskier sighed.
“Those look pretty clean to me, you know.” he remarked, using one arm to support himself as he lay on his stomach. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like you’re trying to distract yourself from something.”
“You don’t know better.” the Witcher grumbled as he kept cleaning his already clean swords.
“So you are?”
Geralt finally looked up from his swords to meet Jaskier’s gaze. It was a mystery to the Witcher as to how he did it, but somehow, Jaskier saw through Geralt’s horseshit like it was a perfectly clean window.
“Not to say your mysterious, edgy brooding isn’t part of your charm, but…” The bard repositioned himself so his head was resting on his hand, the rest of his body lying along its side. “Talk to me, Geralt.”
The Witcher sighed.
“What’s with all the strange shit you’ve been saying the past few days?” Before Jaskier had the chance to play dumb, he elaborated. “The stuff about my hair, and my eyes. All that about starlight, and sunshine, and…” He looked down as if one particular part of his memory was foggy. “...Tea?”
Jaskier sighed. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to explain his reasoning to Geralt; in an ideal situation, he would have believed in all the lovely things Jaskier tried to say to him, rather than be confused. Indeed, in a perfect world, Geralt would’ve seen himself the way Jaskier saw him; beautiful.
“Come on, Jaskier. You didn’t start saying this shit until…"
His eyes widened a fraction as his jaw slackened almost unnoticeably. Before he even said the rest of his sentence, he knew why Jaskier started doing this.
But that didn’t stop the bard from finishing his sentence.
“...Until after I found out about the Trial.” He sat up and swallowed, despite his dry throat. “And your other mutations… and… and the hell you were put through.”
As Geralt’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head, Jaskier started to feel like the idiot he obviously must’ve sounded like. As the Witcher approached him, he shrunk in on himself.
“I - Geralt, you went through something no child should ever have to endure. I know there’s not much I can do to reverse that, or… or make that pain go away, but - but those things that came from them - your eyes, your hair… I still think they’re beautiful, even if they came from something terrible, so I… I thought…”
Jaskier hung his head. This was stupid. All of it. He never should’ve just started blurting idiotic things out of nowhere.
“...What about my voice?”
Jaskier lifted his head back up and looked at Geralt, brows furrowed in confusion. The aforementioned Witcher had his arms crossed as he looked down at the bard, and it wasn’t exactly clear whether or not he wanted a real answer.
“Oh, I… I thought your voice was just like that on it’s own.”
Geralt shooks his head.
“Potion.”
Jaskier looked back down for a moment. Geralt was almost sure he'd have nothing good to say about his voice, until…
"It's soothing."
He was stunned.
“...What?”
“It’s soothing.” Jaskier repeated, “I know you probably expect something more poetic at this point, but… it’s soothing. Whenever you start talking to Roach, or try to warn me about certain monsters so I don’t get my ass handed to me, it… I don’t know, it’s relaxing. Sometimes…” he huffed through his nose at the absurdity of what he was about to say, “...it even helps me fall asleep.”
Jaskier started to fidget - drumming the fingers of one hand against the other, rubbing his fingers together, wrapping them around one another, all normal fidgety things - as he let his awkward but nonetheless heartfelt words hang in the air, staring down at Geralt’s feet until he saw them move as he bent down. The bard was confused about the Witcher’s reason for this, and that confusion grew when Geralt took his hands, held them in his own and stood back up.
“I like your hands.”
Now, as he looked up at his Witcher, arms relaxed as he let him hold his hands, it was Jaskier’s turn to be stunned. He knew how difficult it was for Geralt to express himself at all, let alone about something he liked. The sentence was blunt and simple, and from anyone else, it probably would’ve been nonchalant. But from Geralt, it was like he just recited the most tender, heartfelt poem Jaskier ever heard.
“They’re soft. Gentle. These callouses…” He ran his thumb across Jaskier’s fingertips. “They show how much love you put into your music. Why you waste your talent and passion on me is something I’ll never know.”
“I don’t waste anything, love.” Jaskier retorted with a soft smile. “I know there will always be people who see you as a monster, and that no amount of ballads will make the whole world see you the way I do, as much as I want it to.”
Geralt cast his gaze elsewhere. Jaskier gripped his Witcher’s hands just a little tighter in reassurance, as if it were an attempt to physically send his love into the Witcher through his fingertips.
“...Still, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try, does it? It got us here, didn’t it?” He tilted his head a few times as he glanced around the room. “A steady amount of contracts, more people treating you decently than not, and… a half-lovely room at an inn.”
Geralt nodded a barely noticeable nod, but Jaskier could tell there was more that needed to be said; more he needed his Witcher to know.
“You’re good, Geralt. You’ve spent so long saving the lives of ungrateful, desperate humans, even though so many of them turn right back around and spit at your feet. They may say you’re a monster, but you have more humanity in one finger than most of them have in their entire bodies."
“So,” he continued, “I don’t expect to easily change how you see yourself with a few bizarre compliments, but trust me when I say there’s no way I’d rather spend my life than with you…”
He pulled one of his hands away, only to reach up to Geralt’s face.
“Running my fingers through your hair…”
He brushed a few loose locks of lightning white hair behind Geralt’s ear.
“Gazing into those eyes of yours…”
He slowly dragged his knuckle down the side of Geralt’s face, from his temple down to his jaw, until he dragged it down his neck.
“...and listening to your voice.”
Jaskier could tell by the look in Geralt’s eye that he would be blushing right now if he could. The ever-so-romantic lark put his hand back in his.
“If you ever came to see in yourself what I see in you, you’d never doubt your beauty, my wolf.” The lark tilted his head, staring dreamily into those yellow eyes. “I know that day may not come for a very long time, so I can only hope you’ll trust me when I say that there’s nothing else I’d rather do with my hands…”
Jaskier repositioned his hands so his fingers were interlocked with Geralt’s, fitting perfectly in the gaps between his love's fingers.
“...Than this.”
They stayed like that for a moment, eyes as yellow as sunshine staring into eyes as blue as the ocean. It wasn’t long until Jaskier noticed how heavy those yellow eyes were.
“You’re exhausted, Dear Heart. I can tell.” Jaskier interrupted himself with a yawn, pulling one of his hands away to cover his mouth as he began to feel his own eyelids droop. “I think it’s high time you stop pretending to clean your swords and help me get our coin’s worth out of this…” He gestured to the mattress underneath him. “... luxurious bed for the night, hm?”
That’s exactly what Geralt did.