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Geralt glares up at the dark night sky looming above.
He’s lying flat on his back on his bedroll, which does a pretty piss-poor job at shielding him from the cold evening. From the angle he’s resting, he has a perfect view of the stars peeking out between the treetops surrounding their small camp, but he’s got nothing favourable to say about the view that night.
Or rather, he’s quite distracted by the pain twinging in his back and the way an unidentifiable ache grips his heart like a clawed hand piercing the soft tissue. The feeling is disconcerting to say the least and hurts like any physical pain, even though Geralt has no recollection of being injured. The feel of it makes him antsy and restless in a way he’s not felt before, demanding his attention in a way that makes it hard to focus on much else. Right now, he should be embracing the sweet relief of sleep after another whole day of walking the Path, but sleep has been eluding him lately as his mind continues to race with thoughts, unable to settle despite all Geralt’s efforts.
Just another fun feature of Jaskier’s body he's had the pleasure of experiencing amongst others.
They’d been entrapped in each other’s bodies for the duration of a month now and things like these just kept surfacing, to both their dismay. You’d think they’d not travelled together for two decades judging from the constant surprise and frustration they had to endure adapting to their new bodies.
For instance, it turns out Jaskier’s hearing is absolute shit. While the bard has an undeniable skilled ear for music and has an impressive ability to distinguish sounds and notes, it seems that years of playing around the continent has really taken its’ toll on his overall hearing. Geralt finds himself having to ask several times a day for people around him to repeat themselves, which is nothing short of embarrassing when you’re surrounded by witchers who hear everything .
Even worse, he can only partially blame his inattentiveness in conversation on Jaskier’s awful hearing, because he’s so easily distracted all the fucking time these days. It’s impossible to follow a single train of thought, as this brain seems unable to rationally prioritise and sort out important and unimportant internal or external input. On top of that, there's also these fucking dumb feelings demanding his attention all the fucking time. He could understand now Jaskier’s incessant talking; before he had thought it’d been Jaskier’s person that compelled Geralt to talk so much, but it just turns out the talking stemmed from a very chaotic mind that needed to air its’ thoughts out-loud to prevent it from combusting. Or at the very least, stop it from giving its' host a thundering headache and making it felt like his brain was cooking inside his very skull.
Jaskier doesn’t seem to be faring much better than Geralt in his new skin. He’s continued to pretend he’s unaffected and he’s marginally more successful at hiding it than Geralt these days. He tries to uphold his usually cheerful bravado, but his now-witcher body seems unwilling to cooperate with the exuberant behaviour. Geralt tried to tell Jaskier it is because witcher’s demeanour is naturally more toned down to preserve energy for when they needed it, but Jaskier theorised that it simply is due to the fact that Geralt’s body is allergic to anything that is remotely fun. Either way, the bard had been significantly more subdued lately, and Geralt could see the frustration on Jaskier’s face by how his lips would press into a thin line and his brows would furrow together when he couldn’t express himself the way he wanted to.
Jaskier’d also continued taking the potion Triss and Vesemir had brewed for him, so his witcher senses are still muted although not gone completely. Geralt would see it in the way Jaskier would mope at the stars with wonder or admire the dried flowers Vesemir had stored in his lab with this timid smile that never belonged on Geralt’s rough features. Other times, he’d jump in fright to a sound Geralt could not hear, his eyes wide and wild only to realise he’d heard animals fighting beyond the castle walls or someone clashing swords in the distance.
The first time it’d happened, they’d been sitting in Kaer Morhen's Great Hall discussing the way forward over dinner. Jaskier had jumped in fright so violently that he’d upturned the whole goddamn dining table with his uninhibited strength, only to spill all its’ contents onto Geralt that’d sat opposite him. Geralt had become covered in stew – had naturally and vehemently exclaimed all the profanity he could think off, because that shit was borderline boiling and burned – before having to spend the remainder of the evening with Jaskier as he kept apologising while pulling pieces of carrot and rabbit out of Geralt’s hair and various orifices.
Geralt’s biggest grievance this evening though, is how he just want to fucking sleep but Jaskier’s body is doing its' upmost to keep him from this simple goal. It's like it knows its' inhabitant is the wrong one and is now punishing Geralt for it by fucking up Jaskier's back and bombarding him with all these unnecessary, unwelcome and inconvenient feelings Geralt did not want - it would seem that Jaskier’s physical body is the White Wolf's greatest and most formidable foe yet.
Because they’ve only been on the road for a week now, but their days are shorter and the distance they travel only a stonecast in comparison to what Geralt would usually prefer, simply due to the painful twinges in Geralt's lower back, that would at its' worst radiate all the way down to the soles of his feet. Jaskier doesn’t say anything when Geralt tells them to stop for the night even though there’s still a couple more hours of daylight, but Jaskier’s eyes are sympathetic and his hands always gentle when he touches him – despite the fact they are actually Geralt’s hands, that’s always been rough and trained to kill. Geralt has to squish the guilt bubbling in his gut then for how he had lacked the same empathy for Jaskier when their roles had been reversed in their earlier travels. Because Geralt can tell that Jaskier recognises his pain by the press of his mouth, most likely an old injury the bard has never disclosed to him... perhaps with the worry that Geralt would consider him an unfit companion.
It’s also a week since they left Kaer Morhen and Cirilla behind. The young princess had wanted to accompany them on their travels naturally, but Geralt simply couldn’t allow that with a clear conscience. Not when Geralt can no longer assure her safety. The look of disappointment and hurt on her face when he’d instructed her to stay and continue training with Vesemir until they returned had simply been awful. It took every ounce of his willpower (and Jaskier looking at him with his own scarred face and expectant eyebrows after they’d both agreed it is the safest course of action) to not give in. It’d hurt to leave her at the old keep, Geralt must admit. A surprisingly powerful feeling overwhelmed him the day when they left and he glanced over his shoulder to see her standing there at the keep’s gate alongside Vesemir, her face red and stained with tears. In that moment, it'd felt like someone had pried his ribcage open and stomped at his heart with a particularly heavy and spiked boot which was a novel feeling, and Geralt thought he might start crying his own eyes out then too.
Spring had already been on the horizon then, but they’d left earlier than Geralt would have normally preferred if things hadn’t been so utterly fucked . He did it under the guise that they wanted to venture out to find a cure to his and Jaskier’s ailment sooner rather than later – although at this point, Geralt doesn’t have much hope that a cure exists no matter how insistent and optimistic Jaskier is – but in truth, he’d found the usually familiar and comforting walls of Kaer Morhen suffocating.
The pitying looks from his brothers after they’d heard the curse had gone awry only fuelled the angry sadness and shame churning in his gut; they barely dared to meet his eyes these days as if they thought they frightened him or were afraid to touch him as though he might break. It was as though he’d died and was merely a ghost wandering the halls, no one really looking at or speaking to him anymore. Even fucking Lambert of all people didn’t take digs at him, which had led to a particularly interesting and mortifying interaction where Geralt had lost his temper and slammed his dinner knife into the table merely an inch away from Lambert’s precious swordhand. The other witchers had all skittered uneasily and unsure of what they were to do about this sudden threat, but Lambert had just looked up at him from his seat with this expression that was the closest thing to pity Geralt had ever seen on the man’s face. It had been unbearable to be looked at like that, so Geralt had turned on his heel and left without having touched his food that night.
It's almost made him wish that he’d shared Eskel’s fate, rather than having to endure all of this. Then they wouldn’t treat him like a shadow of what he’d once been. At least then, he’d be dead and buried with his reputation still intact, remembered as a witcher who died as a witcher should: at the hands of a monster, not shoved into a human body and left to slowly fade away at the hands of its’ mortality.
Geralt would sometimes wonder if this is what destiny intended for him all along.
Vesemir had been the only person he’s managed to properly talk to except for Jaskier, as far as witchers manage to have a sincere and heartfelt conversation with each other. His old mentor had sought him out at Jaskier’s request, the night when they’d discovered they’d fucked up the curse. Geralt had refused to leave their room that day and the next; he’d felt and looked absolutely wretched after he’d cried until he’d ran out of tears, his face blotchy and eyes red which looked so much worse as a backdrop to his inhuman, yellow irises on Jaskier’s usually handsome face. It’d felt like his emotions were outside of himself, like an open, bleeding wound for the whole world to see, and Geralt wanted to save the little bit of dignity he had left by not letting Ciri and the other witchers see him like that. Vesemir had been inquisitive and uncharacteristically concerned as he’d sat down at Geralt’s bedside, his rough hands only slightly hesitant as he silently placed a hand on Geralt’s slim shoulder. You’d think Geralt was a child by the gentle manner in which the older witcher treated him; parts of him wanted to spit and hiss at that, but the other part of him wanted to curl up and cry in the arms of the closest thing he’d ever had to a father.
“While it might not be your own anymore, you still have a life,” Vesemir had told him, voice low and rough. “For that, I am grateful. I’ve lost too many of you and become too old to not be thankful of such small mercies.”
“Not much of a life if I am nothing but a burden,” Geralt had muttered in response, his voice – Jaskier’s voice sounding absolutely shot after crying for so long. “Who am I if I cannot even protect the people I care about, Vesemir?”
“Your bard might have two left feet, but he is good with his hands and got some strength to him,” Vesemir had said and gone off, only to return with an old wooden longbow in hand. He’d gently placed it in Geralt’s lap. “It’s not tradition for witchers to use one of these. Therefore, there are only a few in the keep, but they’re more lightweight and portable than a crossbow in some regards. They also have the additional benefit of silence. And your bard’s physique is similar to that of an elf, which is more suited for archery than swordplay. It might be of some comfort once you’ve mastered it.”
Like always, Vesemir had been right. The bow had felt more comfortable in Jaskier’s hands than Geralt’s swords, and it turned out that Jaskier’s body, long and slender and indeed much like an elf's, picked up the bow with surprising speed – although Geralt had absolutely shredded his arm with the bowstring the first couple of times, jokes on him for not thinking ahead and using a proper guard. The bow had become a small comfort, but they’d still stuck to the main roads for safety during their week of travelling as the creatures in the forests had started awakening from hibernation. Neither of them felt like risking running into a griffin nest or a nekker hive simply due to recklesness just yet.
They’ve discussed whether they should start picking up smaller contracts; they were spending their nights sleeping outside, their coin purses too slim to even consider a tavern. But as appealing as a warm bath and hot food is, Geralt finds himself hesitating. Not because he doesn’t think Jaskier capable, because the bard-turned-witcher’s improvements with the sword had been impressive even to Geralt as he'd continued to train him, but it was more that… the thought of people scared him. Which is fucking ridiculous, because to all appearances they were just how they’d always been thanks to Triss' magic, and people fucking loved Jaskier or most people at least, but -
He fiddles absently with Triss' talisman hanging around his neck. It’s an innocuous little crystal attached to a long, slender chain to be tucked underneath his shirt next to the tuning fork and ring Jaskier insisted he’d still wear – "It’s part of my well-crafted, hard-earned image, Geralt. Don’t you dare fuck that up for me". Jaskier has a similar crystal too, though even less conspicuous where it rested behind the witcher medallion adorning his chest. The crystal has Triss’ magic trapped inside it; a simple glamour charm to hide Geralt’s inhuman eyes on his now otherwise human body, and vice versa for Jaskier.
Both Geralt and Jaskier had agreed it was the best course of action. They didn’t want their secret to get out after all, so they did their best in pretending to be the other. However, therein lies the problem, because Geralt hates it. Hates how people treat him like Jaskier. It is disconcerting to have people be so nice to him, to willingly approach him while being all smiles and praises to Jaskier's talents. After so many years of being sneered at, turned away and called derogatory names because of his status as a witcher, Geralt feels entirely uncomfortable and wrong-footed, unable and unsure how to handle this sudden change in demeanour of the general public.
Contracts meant coin, which meant taverns and more people and it is entirely selfish of Geralt to deny Jaskier that, but… things are so complicated now, and he's still trying to navigate the unfamiliar emotional terrain which he'd been so callously dumped into. Avoiding the things that only caused him grief is a short-lived and temporary relief, but a relief nonetheless and Geralt feels like he doesn't have nearly enough of that these days.
Especially when he's not even allowed rest.
There’s rustling from the bushes as Jaskier emerges from the undergrowth, two rabbits in hand from the traps Geralt had set up earlier. Something about seeing his own marred face makes irritation flare up in his chest, but it quickly dies down as if it realises its’ own pointlessness. There’s nothing good that comes out of lashing out at Jaskier for something that isn’t his fault…
… even if it is his body making Geralt feel this way. Feel all these things.
Jaskier casts Igni on their campfire that had long since lost its’ flame. The movement seems effortless as if he’d done it forever and not just learned it a few days ago when Geralt himself had tried casting it and learned he’d lost his signs to this curse too.
Geralt twists in his bedroll to look at the other man inhabiting his real body, causing his back to twinge painfully in the process. He isn't able to hide the wince from the face that isn't his own, still not fully in control of Jaskier’s form and how innately expressive it is.
“How are you feeling?” Jaskier asks casually, as if he hadn't caught the pained expression on Geralt’s face.
The question is one Geralt deeply resents, having been asked him one too many times since this fucking curse was placed upon them. He obviously isn't fine, but trying to put all his emotions into words requires a vocabulary Geralt doesn't have. So, he settles for the childish option: “I am feeling like you could suck my dick.”
“Geralt, we spoke about this,” Jaskier says, feigning patience like a disappointed mother. “First of, I’d be sucking my own dick and not yours. I know it's magnificent, but please don't get too attached as I want it back. Secondly, use your words. I know my body has plenty of them and you'd benefit from taking advantage of that.”
“Angry,” Geralt grunts, turning back around to glare up at the skies. It’s not entirely the truth, because it feels much more layered than simply anger: frustration, pain, disappointment, sadness, more pain, grief, all mixed together in a shit concoction of debilitating emotions.
Jaskier leans in, blocking his vision. His eyes shine in the darkness; those eerie yellow irises that conceals Jaskier’s vibrant blue underneath. “Care to elaborate or do you want to continue this game where you answer me like a particularly incoherent caveman.”
“I –” even considering voicing his thoughts makes his throat feel tight, and Geralt immediately swallows the words back down again. He's cried more during the short period he's spent as Jaskier than he's done in his entire life, for far lesser things than he's experienced in the past. Geralt doesn't think witchers have the ability to cry even if they want to. And how does he even start to explain these things to Jaskier? Jaskier who might be the only one who could possibly understand, but has his own things to deal with. Geralt doesn't want to burden the bard with his own bullshit, especially since he's at fault for the situation they've found themselves in now. He'd lost those privileges the moment he'd left Jaskier on that mountain.
“Emotions are complicated, Geralt. All the more reason to try to put them into words,” Jaskier says, oblivious to Geralt's thoughts. Or maybe he's just deliberately choosing to ignore them.
Geralt grunts, not trusting himself enough to try to reply something flippant.
Jaskier snorts humourlessly, the quietest of sounds barely perceptible to human ears. “Normally I’d do an excellent impression of you to mock this unimpressive self-pitying act of yours, but…”
“But?”
“Tell me, my dear friend. Are you depressed?”
Geralt’s eyebrows climb on his forehead as he props himself up on his elbows to look at Jaskier properly, to see if the bard is speaking in jest, but his own scarred face is looking at him with utmost seriousness. “Witchers don’t get depressed,” he says dismissively, but his eyes are still locked with Jaskier’s in a silent battle as if it can will Jaskier to believe his words.
It's a battle he’s seemingly losing because Jaskier’s face softens suddenly. “Oh, Geralt,” he mutters softly and sits down on the ground to pull the witcher into his arms. Geralt thinks he will never get used to the feeling of being small and so protected in someone else’s grip. “I swear you witchers have the emotional maturity of hormonal teenagers,” the bard says. It’s only a little reprimanding, mostly fond and warm as he cards his fingers through Geralt’s now brown locks.
Geralt’s heart swells despite its’ aches, and he feels a pleasant warmth spread out into his limbs. It soothes his aching joints and muscles. The feeling is vulnerable and fragile, almost infantile, and one that only Jaskier had evoked in him so far. It is the same one that makes him want to sniff and curl up in a sad ball to weep at the guilt eating away at him for all the death and misery he's caused since he became a witcher.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” Geralt admits quietly, the words barely a rush of air out of his lungs as he hesitantly lets them escape his lips.
It's the truth. He's always restless; fidgety and unable to stay still for even a moment, this body urging for constant movement as if it didn’t know how to relax. His chest is always in knots and his throat feels like it’s always a little too tight as if he’s constantly on the verge of crying, and Geralt knows this is all due to the deep-seated ache in his heart which he doesn't want to acknowledge. He thinks something might be wrong with him because he shouldn’t feel this sad all the fucking time, but it’s like he’s in a bottomless pit surrounded by slippery, steep sides that make it impossible to crawl out.
Jaskier ghosts his fingers over the shell of the Witcher-turned-bard's ear, causing a pleasant shiver to run through Geralt. The rabbits lay next to their campfire, easily forgotten by Jaskier. "Would you like to talk about it?"
"No."
The hands in his hair - Jaskier’s hair cease their administrations, instead crawling underneath Geralt's jaw to tilt his head up so their eyes meet. Geralt stares into the depths charmed gold until they flash and turn into a brilliant blue as Jaskier slowly removes the talisman around his own neck. The blue hue of Jaskier’s irises soften Geralt's otherwise marred and rough features, making him seem almost friendly and human.
"You know," Jaskier says quietly as he with the same deft fingers removes Geralt’s own talisman too, who has to blink as his own vision flashes when his eyes return to his real witchery yellow ones. The bard is silent for a second as he searches Geralt's eyes, then there's the saddest of smiles on Geralt’s old face. "This whole experience has been quite daunting for me, probably for the exact opposite reason you've been struggling with it. I feel like I'm walking around in the thickest of fogs, where everything I've ever known or taken comfort in is hazy and out of reach. The muses have stopped singing their sweet songs to me and left me out in the cold, yet in your body I feel little sorrow for losing one of the only thing that I was put on this earth to do."
Jaskier’s eyes have gone distant and Geralt feels his heart clench painfully. His throat tightens again, becoming raw and uncooperative as if Jaskier’s body wants to cry for the bard who in that moment cannot cry for himself. Geralt closes his eyes as salty tears start to well at their corners and he turns his face away in shame.
"And my feelings… I know how overpowering and unruly they can be, Geralt. After that day on the mountain I didn't sleep or eat for weeks. My emotions felt like they were scattered around me like glass shards, making any step I tried to make in whichever direction impossible because any footfall was just a painful reminder that I'd lost the only thing more important to me than my music."
Jaskier pulls Geralt a little closer and tilts the witcher's jaw back up. He thumbs over his cheekbone as if urging him to open his eyes. Geralt complies, slowly lifting his lids to see Jaskier’s light blues shining back at him even in the dim light of their dying campfire.
"Heartbreak and depression are close bedfellows, my dearest witcher," Jaskier finishes with a whisper, catching one of Geralt’s traitorous, stray tears. "I know it's difficult and I can only imagine what you're going through; particularly after a century of witchering and then being so callously thrown into my melodramatics, which I don't envision are being too kind on you right now."
Geralt does his best to hold back the tears gathering and blurring his vision at Jaskier’s words. He tries to remember his training and his breathing exercises; tries to gain some semblance of control and grasp onto the familiar anger which had merely been a poor illusion to the emotional distress he's been feeling.
He wants to tell Jaskier to fuck off, that he doesn't need or want his sympathy. He wants to tell Jaskier he's sorry for everything, something he can't seem to say enough these days. He wants to scream and cry at the unfairness of their situation. He wants to kill something. He wants to shove Jaskier to the ground with strength he no longer possesses and make the bard beg for Geralt to fuck him. He wants to kiss the other man softly and tell him he loves him.
“I miss being myself," Geralt says, gently threading one long, white piece of hair between his now spidery fingers. He studies the strands with detached interest for a moment, before he tucks it behind Jaskier’s borrowed ear and away from a witcher’s weathered face. With the same hand, he maps out what was once his own facial features with his fingertips, and he briefly wonders how someone like Jaskier could find beauty in someone like him. Yet, with Jaskier at the helm of his body, there's a soft and gentle kindness to him that had never been there before. It disarmed someone of the monstrous quality to his face. "To be strong and in control. Things didn’t feel so complicated then. I miss you even though you're right here. I miss your smile, your chatter, and your music, and -"
"Yes?"
“I miss my horse.” Of all stupid things, this is where his voice cracks like a idiotic prepubescent teenager’s.
Roach whinnies where she’d been tied to a tree, as if responding to Geralt’s statement. She’d always been a clever girl. Too bad she isn’t clever enough to recognise him inside the bard’s shell. Nowadays, she nips playfully at his hair as if he's Jaskier and shuffles away if he comes too close to her. She doesn't eat the grain he tries to feed her, only accepts it if Jaskier gives it to her. Geralt is only allowed to ride her if Jaskier is too. Geralt misses sharing his secrets with her because he knows she'll never tell another soul, but that isn’t a privilege he has anymore either.
Jaskier has the audacity to laugh at him, a deep and rumbly laugh that isn't unpleasant, but not a sound Geralt thinks he personally has ever made before in his life. "I'm sure Roach misses you too. She's getting a little suspicious of me. I think she's seen through my guise quite some time ago."
Geralt grumbles with dissatisfaction, then winces as his back sparks with pain again. Jaskier must have noticed, because suddenly there are hands making slow, soothing circles and massaging the tired, cramping muscles surrounding Geralt's spine. He allows himself to enjoy the unusual feeling of being touched so lovingly, and Geralt feels himself melt a little under Jaskier’s surprisingly meticulous and careful touch.
"Do you really believe this can be fixed?" Geralt asks again, after a moment of companionable silence. It's a question he's asked Jaskier multiple times before, but suddenly it feels important to ask it again. It feels right, following the conversation they'd just had.
"I do," Jaskier says without hesitation, leaving no room for doubt there.
Geralt hums. Almost desperately, he tries to cling onto some of Jaskier's optimism and unyielding hope, tries to manifest it as his own truth within his heart. He is only mildly successful, though he has to admit he feels a little better because of it. "Okay," he concedes and pulls Jaskier down to lay next to him. He knows he's only able to because Jaskier lets himself be manhandled, but he doesn't care to examine that particular thought. "Then I do too."
Their campfire is dying again and the rabbits they'd caught have long since been abandoned, but Geralt doesn't give a shit as Jaskier rests his head on Geralt's slender chest to listen to his heartbeat. Like this, if Geralt closes his eyes, he can almost imagine they're back in their rightful bodies and this is just another night of one of their many adventures.
"If this is truly what destiny intended, then… I'm glad it's you, Jaskier."
"Me too, Geralt."
Something comforting and warm unfurls inside of Geralt's heart, and for the first time in a long time his mind is quiet as he lets himself be lulled to sleep by the comforting feel of Jaskier’s own heart beating steady underneath his ribs.