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“You deceived us. There weren’t three drowners as stated in the contract. There were five and one of them was nesting, so you owe us triple the coin.”
“I wasn’t attempting to deceive you, master bard,” the small town’s alderman splutters anxiously, clearly taken aback by the bard and witcher who’d stormed into his small office in the middle of the day. “And why triple?!”
“Because your lies almost got us killed! You should count yourself lucky we don’t charge you quadruple.” Geralt’s face is thunderous even through all the sopping muck and grime still clinging onto him after one of the drowners had jumped him and dragged him down far into the depths of the muddy water. It really isn’t the look for him while wearing Jaskier’s body: covered in filth, his dark hair slicked back with bog water and his clothes stained and plastered to his now slender frame.
Jaskier doesn’t comment upon it. He can, despite what the majority thinks of him, keep his gob shut when there’s a time or need for it, and right now he’s equally as filthy as Geralt after having jumped after the witcher stuck in his body to stab Geralt’s silver sword straight through the drowner’s skull.
He just couldn’t wait to get their hard-earned coin so they could check in to a tavern for the evening to clean up, order some ales and a hot meal, and finally sleep in a comfortable bed. Jaskier is tired of sleeping outside. The spring makes the days warm, but the nights are still frosty which makes the ground cold and unforgiving underneath their bedrolls.
While it didn’t matter much beyond comfort to him now, Geralt’s body, unaffected by the elements, does not require the small luxuries Jaskier usually preferred, he knows it mattered a whole lot to Geralt at the moment. Of course, Geralt didn’t say anything, but Jaskier knew sleeping outside over a longer period of time did a number on his poor back. As a human, he also didn’t preserve heat as well as he used to as a witcher, which is evident how he would silently curl up close to Jaskier at night while shivering violently even in the thickest clothes Jaskier owned and underneath the thick pelts they’d brought with them.
Decent sleep is a commodity these days, for the both of them, so it’s safe to say, a good night’s rest would soothe away some aches and pains in body and spirit.
The sight of the alderman’s large, red nose twitching with disdain brings Jaskier out of his musings. The elderly fellow is clearly not appreciating being spoken to this way by what he considered merely a bard. His narrow, watery eyes slither over to Jaskier, and he raises his half-full chalice at him. It stinks of overly sweetened wine. “Witcher! This is a contract issued to you, and you alone. Why do you let your busker speak on your behalf?” He spits out the word busker with great contempt, side-eyeing Geralt who is standing there with his arms folded and a mean scowl on his borrowed face.
The witcher really had no appreciation for Jaskier’s great efforts of keeping that face wrinkle-free.
“He’s my manager,” is all Jaskier says dismissively accompanied by a shrug. He isn’t going to get involved in this petty pissing-contest that the alderman is trying to engage him in.
The alderman's mouth wraps silently around the word, his face uncomprehending as if he doesn’t know what that means. No wonder, he looked an illiterate fool and he stank of alcohol which probably doesn’t help his comprehension much.
Geralt snarls at being so deliberately ignored and slams a bloody, wet sack containing one decapitated drownerhead onto the alderman’s table. The liquor bottles that are littering the alderman’s table clink together warningly. Rather overdramatic and unnecessary, Jaskier thinks. He feels a small burst of pride. At least Geralt is staying in character in that way.
“Our payment?” Geralt asks again, the mean scowl on his face twisting into an equally mean smile when he sees the alderman cower a little at the drownerhead bleeding onto the polished wood of his desk, its eyes dead and mouth hanging open to expose its wickedly sharp teeth. The alderman, white-faced and wide-eyed, silently pushes a coin purse to the witcher who picks it up with Jaskier’s long spidery fingers and hefts it in the palm of his hand. He looks pleased as he tucks it away into his pockets before he snatches one of the more expensive-looking bottles on the alderman’s desk. “I’ll take this as compensation for nearly getting us killed.”
“Take that with you too, please,” the alderman whispers hoarsely and waves a bejewelled hand at the head staining his books with blood, though Geralt has already turned on his heel and exited the small office.
Jaskier takes some pity on the pathetic man and removes the head, doing his best not to show his own disgust on his borrowed witcher face as it might blow their cover. With Geralt’s arm stretched out as far from his body as he’s able to distance himself from the bloodied, severed head, Jaskier chases after his witcher.
“You didn’t have to make the man shit himself,” he reprimands Geralt as soon as he catches up to him, noticing with some mild frustration that he has to quicken Geralt’s steps to keep up with his own long legs which Geralt now possesses.
“Well, that is the whole purpose of an asshole,” Geralt replies breezily as he removes the bottle’s cork with his teeth and takes a large swig of the liquid inside only to grimace at the taste of it. The drink smells mostly of ethanol and not much else, stinging Jaskier’s sensitive nose. It would appear that ‘expensive-looking’ didn’t equate with good.
Jaskier scoffs and rolls his eyes. He’s a bit in a foul mood, he’ll admit. The contract had gone tits up since the little plan they’d crafted didn’t account for over twice the number of monsters they’d signed up for. It’d also been a little too close for comfort considering the professional monster hunter out of the two of them currently resides in Jaskier’s very human, very mortal body. Jaskier didn’t like the fear it sparked in this body: only a sour taste on his tongue and an indescribable anger that fuelled every slash of the silver sword he wielded.
The severed head in his grip is still dripping with blood, but at least it is Geralt’s clothes he’s staining and not his own. As the expert, the witcher would have to deal with getting the blood out himself if he doesn’t want Jaskier to immediately throw the ruined garments away and set them ablaze with one of Geralt’s nifty signs.
“I don’t know about your plans for the rest of the day, but I would very much like to clean up and have a hot meal,” Jaskier says after another moment as he stops to wonder what the fuck to do about this head . He couldn’t just very well throw it away, what if a child stumbles upon it? While he isn’t overly fond of the little buggers, he doesn’t want to scar them for life. Yet, Jaskier doesn’t exactly want to walk around carrying the damn thing either, no matter how much it helps convince the masses that he is indeed the infamous witcher Geralt of Rivia.
“I’m getting drunk,” Geralt replies and takes another swig of his bottle. He comes to a halt too when he notices Jaskier isn’t following but standing there contemplating the head with disgust written all over his face. The witcher inhabiting Jaskier’s body sighs and extends his palm out to Jaskier with his ringed fingers and makes a grabbing motion. “Give it here. I saw an alchemist at the town’s entrance, we might get a couple of orens for it there.”
“What on earth would an alchemist do with this?” Jaskier asks but happily hands over the drowner’s head to the witcher, his fingers gripping Geralt’s wrist in silent thanks for being relieved of it.
“Drownerbrains have some healing properties, among other things. Us witchers use it in some of our potions.”
“So, you’d drink it?” Jaskier isn’t able to hide the disgust from his borrowed face, his nose scrunching up as his lip curl. “Geralt, my heart, if you care about me even a little then please don’t ever ask me to drink monster brains… wait, there’s not any brains in the potion I take like this, is there?” He asks, which would have been a squeak in his own voice but only made it sound like he had been gargling pebbles with Geralt’s.
“If there was, would you actually want to know?” There’s the smallest of smiles playing on Geralt’s lips, though Jaskier can tell it’s strained for some reason. There’s an unusual tightness around his eyes and tension in his shoulders, as though something is bothering him, something else beyond the usual body swapping business anyway.
“Geralt, is everything alright?” Jaskier asks, unable to ignore the niggling feeling of concern at the back of his brain that these mixed signals are causing within him.
The witcher hesitates for a quarter of a second, which is enough time to make his current face go through several stages of emotions until it goes indifferent. “Fine,” he settles on, and shrugs. “Just tired, is all.”
Jaskier doesn’t believe him for a second. He wants to shake the man, wants to reprimand him. He wants to ask whether he hadn’t learned anything at all from being in the bard’s body for so long and to use his goddamn words . But Jaskier is tired and cranky too, so he lets the matter go with only a sigh as he wordlessly follows after the witcher who’s already turned on his heel and is walking down the street with a decapitated monster head in one hand and a liquor bottle in the other.
After dropping by the apothecary with the drowner, they check into a room at the local tavern with a small portion of their hard-earned money. Geralt only dumps his stuff in their room along with Jaskier’s coat, and dunks his head in the basin to clear the worst muck from his hair before he makes a move for the exit with the alderman’s liquor still in hand – already half-empty, Jaskier notes with a mix of exasperation and concern.
“You’re not going to clean up?” Jaskier asks innocently as he is carefully unbuckling Geralt’s armour, mindful of the worn leather straps. As their situation is at the moment, they wouldn’t be able to afford replacing them if one of them broke.
Geralt seems to falter a little in the doorway, his shoulders still tense as he tosses a terse “later” over his shoulder and heads downstairs to the tavern’s busy bar.
Jaskier frowns at the witcher’s back as he leaves. There’s something off about him today, and he wonders if this moodiness has something to do with the contract or whether there is something else bothering him – again, beyond the usual body swapping business which obviously puts a damper on both their moods, albeit Geralt probably more so being the one with the full emotional registry these days.
The bard would like to imagine that Geralt is doing better in that regard though. That he is adjusting to some of the intensity of the newfound feelings he’s having in his body. Jaskier knows his body feels a lot and has been trying to guide the witcher to the best of his ability, but not being able to actually access said feelings in those moments make things… complicated. It’s purely memory, and those seem to be getting hazier by the day as though they rotted with misuse.
During one of the sweeter moments during the time Geralt has had to experience emotions, they’d sat inside the shelter of an old cave as they watched the rain pouring down outside. They had a fire going and Jaskier had curled up next to Geralt in their bedrolls, already half-asleep and content when Geralt had quietly asked him “What is this feeling?”. He had this odd look on his face as he stared outside while his fingers had been carding through Jaskier’s silver hair. “It’s… warm?” It hadn’t seemed like the words he had been searching for. Jaskier hummed in contentment and curled up a little closer to his witcher, who hummed too. “It’s nice,” he’d concluded eventually, and rested his head atop of Jaskier.
It’s a stark contrast to today, though neither of them had been in a particularly good mood lately. It probably didn’t help that they didn’t even know where to start looking for a cure to their predicament. Mages and witches would be the obvious answer, but Geralt explained to him what Triss had said about old magic and their curse’s nature which made it unlikely they’d get anywhere with a mage if the arch-mistress and rectoress of Aretuza couldn’t help them. Geralt seems distrustful of sorcerers and sorceresses in general though, cynical as he is with everything else; he seems to think that at least someone would have dabbled in this kind of old and forbidden magic for their own twisted enjoyment, or at the very least could point them in the right direction. They’d have to be smart with how they chose to go about it as it isn’t like they could exactly just openly ask about these things without endangering themselves a great deal. Geralt had also mentioned other beings of chaos, but he had a conflicted expression on his face when he’d spoken about it that suggested he hadn’t been comfortable with the idea, even though he’s the one who proposed it in the first place.
Jaskier isn’t going to act like he understands the magic babble at all, but he gets the gist of what the witcher had been trying to convey: the information they were looking for was scarce and difficult to obtain, if it even existed at all. Jaskier is still clinging onto hope though, for the both of them because Geralt is still a pessimistic bastard no matter what body he found himself in.
Until then, they’d continue taking contracts as they traversed the continent for clues.
When he finishes removing Geralt’s armour and sullied clothes, he takes his sweet time to clean the drowner grime off Geralt’s strong body and wash the filth out of his white hair. He goes about it with the same care he would have if they hadn’t been in each other’s bodies, gentle but methodological with deliberate movements until he’s clean and smells of chamomile and something so inherently Geralt it makes him shudder.
Afterwards, he sits and admires the strength of the body he’s occupying. He wonders briefly if it’s weird to do so now that he’s in possession of it but dismisses the thought as fast as it came. He’s always loved Geralt’s body; the strength and power of it, the proportions of him. So different than his real body. Geralt’s legs are shorter than his own, but where Jaskier’s long legs are as lean as the rest of him the witcher has significant bulk in his thighs and calves. It’s the same with his upper body and arms, which are so defined and strong that Jaskier could not resist touching them even now – though Jaskier would like to believe that he’s packed on some muscle in his adulthood too after running after Geralt for so many years. He is certainly more fit than other troubadours his age at least, who’d mostly resigned themselves to a tenure at a university somewhere.
With a large hand, he splays his fingers over Geralt’s sternum and closes his eyes. He’s feeling for a heartbeat that is too slow and almost too faint for even Jaskier’s muted witcher senses to hear. He is still taking the potion Triss and Vesemir had made for him, only now Geralt makes it for him and makes sure Jaskier drinks it every other day. He wishes he didn’t have to take the damn thing, to mute out the world as Geralt experiences it; a strange feeling almost like missing a limb gnawing at the back of his mind that he knows still belongs to Geralt. If this doesn’t get fixed soon, he swears to himself that one day he’d come off the foul concoction. Their coin is scarce enough as it is, and him having to eat out of their supplies for that is… Jaskier feels guilty and weak for it. It’s not a great feeling.
Sighing, he gets dressed in Geralt’s dark clothes: a black linen shirt and matching dark breeches. Boring and dull for Jaskier, albeit it stands in such beautiful contrast to Geralt’s pale skin and white hair and makes his usually golden eyes all the more striking. At that thought, he secures the talisman around his neck, makes sure it sits firmly in place before he heads out the door of their room.
He finds his witcher downstairs. Geralt is sitting curled up in a corner with a tankard and a menacing glare on his face, looking very much unapproachable which is not a good look on Jaskier’s usually cheerful and friendly exterior. Thankfully no one seems to recognise either of them here; a small and quiet village down south too remote for much gossip or anything. Or at least, to have heard of the infamous duo they were. Usually, Jaskier would consider such an uncouth crowd boors or simpletons or both, as everyone north of the Yaruga has heard of them, but now he finds it a bit of a relief. It meant no one would be pestering them, and no one would question Geralt’s dishevelled appearance or moody disposition, for which Jaskier would have to work a great deal to recover from. Imagine if word got out about this, he’d never show his face in Oxenfurt again or anywhere else for that matter.
In the tavern’s harsh light, Jaskier also can’t help but notice that Geralt’s lost weight. He looks too thin. While Jaskier has always been tall and slim – even gangly in his youth, he’s never been gaunt, but the yellow light from the lanterns carves out his jawline and cheeks and accentuates the dip of his collarbones peeking out from his open shirt collar.
“You should eat,” Jaskier tells him not unkindly, though Geralt’s vocal cords are too gruff to make it sound anything less than an order.
“Not hungry,” Geralt mutters, pulling one knee tighter to his chest as he takes another swig of the tankard. Jaskier sees his throat bob as he swallows the ale down, a little of the liquid seeping out from the corner of his mouth and down his chin.
“Why? Because of what happened with the drowners?” He asks carefully. He understands if Geralt is feeling inadequate, he recognises that feeling. The feeling of helplessness and vulnerability in the face of danger and monsters. Jaskier’s hands are not meant to fight nor to kill; they are the hands of an artist which only create, but now Geralt possesses those hands, and he has to come to terms with that until they can swap back. “We killed the three we were sent to kill. We couldn’t possibly have known –”
“But we should have! There’s never just three drowners. I should have been prepared, but I wasn’t!” Geralt says forcefully and slams the tankard down onto the table with a resounding bang. He is gesturing wildly with his free hand though the motion seems involuntary, he doesn’t seem to be even aware that he’s doing it.
Jaskier is really getting quite tired of this self-destructive act Geralt has going on for himself. Not that it’s anything new for the witcher, but at least before it hadn’t been accompanied by the helplessness he now must be feeling. It is as if now that he can’t toss himself headfirst into danger as a distraction from all his negative feelings, his self-doubt are eating away at his thoughts instead. It’s not like Jaskier can’t understand it as he knows how his body works and reacts to these things; he never did cope well with being confronted with his own shortcomings and inadequacies. It didn’t make it any easier being the outsider looking in, though, watching Geralt putting himself through all this mental torment.
“And you!” Geralt exclaims, showing a finger in Jaskier’s face and making him go cross-eyed. “I’ve told you several times not to sheath the sword until we’re away from danger. Don’t get complacent. Even with my muscle memory, you’re not skilled enough to act like you did.”
Jaskier growls as he feels a vague spike of anger underneath the stupid canvas that usually blanketed all his emotions. “You’re not being fair; I did the best I could given the circumstances. I saved you, didn’t I?”
“I am not some damsel in distress that needs saving!”
“No, but need I remind you, my dear, that I am. And right now, you’re me and I’m sorry to say that makes you the damsel in this scenario!” Jaskier’s anger seeps out of him when he sees the struck look on Geralt’s borrowed face. He sighs. “I’m getting a drink.”
He imagines that he can feel Geralt’s real, non-glamoured eyes on him as he leaves, those beautiful and piercing golden eyes conveying emotions Jaskier now knows don't come easy to the other man. Jaskier so desperately wishes it was real, that they were back in their own bodies and no longer had to navigate a reality made so confusing by viewing it through the lens of each other. Things between them hadn’t been any less complicated then, but the boundaries had seemed so much clearer; lines drawn in sand that didn’t get so easily washed away by the sea lapping away at them.
People in the small tavern scatter like frightened hens as he approaches the bar, keeping him at a safe distance and eyeing him warily as though he’ll suddenly attack them if provoked. They might not know who they are, but they certainly seem to be aware of what he is.
“Oh, fun. White hair, big ol' loner. Two very, very scary looking swords. I know who you are.”
He’s still not used to this existence where he’s so alienated, just walking into a room of humans would fill the vicinity with the pungent stench of fear and hatred. He’s accompanied Geralt for long enough to be familiar with it, yet it’s something else entirely to be on the receiving end of that hatred. Jaskier feels his heart weep for the witcher who says he needs no one, when the fact of the matter is that the man chose solitude due to the fear of rejection after having had his heart stomped on by prejudiced boots telling him he’s not worthy of love.
The human condition fears otherness : Jaskier had seen it in how people treated witchers, how they persecuted the elves and how dwarves were unwelcomed into towns and cities alike. Soon enough, no one is safe. It makes discomfort bubble deep in his gut, making his throat tight with anger. Jaskier would cry about it if he could, because no one deserves that kind of treatment or to ever feel that way. Maybe he’d write a song about it once they switched back:
‘Love long forsaken and rotted away
it leaves you broken and lead astray
until you can’t see those who are there for you
but darling I’ll make them sinners pay
because my love for you is true’
It's off-beat, too many syllables. The words are jumbled in his mind, as though Geralt’s brain is immune to the influences of Jaskier’s musical talents.
Fuck, he really does need a drink.
The barmaid serves him without a word, slamming the tankard of brown muck they equated to ale in this town onto the counter and snatching the coin she’s offered without touching him as though he’s diseased. Jaskier wants to sneer at her but knows it will only cause more harm than it’s worth, particularly if she caught sight of Geralt’s sharp canines. He doesn’t want to risk losing the opportunity to sleep in an actual bed tonight as opposed to the filthy ground which has been his life for the past couple of weeks.
Throwing the drink back, he drains it quickly before ordering another one. If Geralt is getting absolutely obliterated, so will he because he’s tired and cranky and just wants to forget about the world for only tonight. Reality can be dealt with tomorrow when he’ll probably wake up to the sound of Geralt throwing up into the wash basin in their room.
Paying for his second drink, he makes his way back through the crowd. Except, before he can get to Geralt’s table his path is blocked by a burly-looking man with an impressive paunch and an ugly grimace on his face Jaskier thinks is supposed to be threatening – in fairness, he probably would have found it a little threatening if he’d been himself, but Geralt’s body had a very different opinion of what is scary and not. There’s also a couple of men standing behind him, barely past their teens with their spotty faces and gangly postures and probably the man’s sons judging from their unfortunate resemblance to the older gentleman.
“Well, well. Would you look at that. If it isn’t our saviour. The hero of the hour,” the ugly fucker blocking his path says mockingly. He knocks the tankard out of Jaskier’s hand, making his two henchmen laugh.
Ignorant arseholes, the lot of them.
Inwardly, Jaskier flinches on Geralt’s behalf, at this open display of hostility the witcher doesn’t deserve but is faced with daily. Outwardly he just raises an unimpressed eyebrow that he knows looks quite intimidating on Geralt’s face.
“I believe you owe me a new drink,” he says calmly, in Geralt’s usual gruff tone. It’s with great effort he resists the urge to beat the man’s face in with Geralt’s oversized fists.
The man bares his disgusting, yellow teeth at him and spits at Jaskier’s borrowed boots. “Think you’re welcome here because you killed those drowners? Lookin’ human doesn’t make you any less of a monster than they were, mutant.”
What a tactless idiot. How dumb do you have to be to provoke a witcher like this? Jaskier is about to tell the man so when a presence is suddenly hovering at his side, a warm body sliding up to him like a snake in the grass as Geralt leans heavily onto Jaskier’s shoulder. His eyes are a bit glassy and he’s got that damn bottle in his hand again, and is the very picture of drunken nonchalance as he says rather charmingly; “Sorry, gentlemen. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Are we having some sort of problem?”
That strong smell of ethanol is clinging to him now, suggesting that Geralt is probably beyond reasonably sloshed. How the hell he’s managed that so quickly is beyond Jaskier, who highly suspects that the witcher is going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow – for which he can only thank himself, and Jaskier would have absolutely no sympathy for the man if he as much as dared to complain about it. More concerningly though, Jaskier is fairly certain he’s never actually seen Geralt really drunk before, which could mean trouble. The witcher could be rather unpredictable even in his soberest of moments; who nows what he’d do with his head soaked with mead and all those pesky emotions he’s not yet accustomed to.
“Jaskier, I’ll handle it,” Jaskier hisses into Geralt’s ear, grabbing the witcher by the elbow. He’s not entirely sure if it is to steady him or to restrain him.
But Geralt has this maniacal glint in his eye now despite his jovial tone and is obviously looking for a fight. Jaskier isn’t sure whether he appreciates Geralt taking out his anger on someone else other than Jaskier or not, though Jaskier would still prefer if they didn’t get thrown out on the streets before he could get to enjoy at least one blissful night of sleep in an actual bed.
“C’mon,” Geralt edges on, a growl making its way into his voice and betraying his cheery intent. “Tell me what you told my friend here.”
Jaskier would be proud they’d come so far that Geralt referred to him as his friend if he wasn’t so horrified at how aggressive the other is coming across. He looked practically feral.
“This ain’t none of your business, boy. This is between me and this mutant. Now, fuck off before I –”
Whatever the fucker is about to say is interrupted as Geralt smashes the bottle over the man’s head with a snarl, having managed to slip out of Jaskier’s grip before he could stop it. The sack of shit doesn’t even hit the ground before someone cheers loudly and the bar erupts into chaos as a fight ensues.
The two teen henchmen make a jump for Geralt, but Jaskier is a lot quicker in this body and instinctively pulls the witcher behind his now large frame. Some primal part of his brain screams ‘protect at all costs’ at him much like earlier that day with the drowners, and Jaskier purely reacts as he shoves the first henchman into a table and punches the other in the gut, effectively taking both of them out with only a blow to each of them and not breaking a sweat. There’s a weird moment when Jaskier stares in surprise at the bodies crumbled to the floor, then to Geralt who looks equally as surprised and a little embarrassed at having needed Jaskier to protect him.
They aren’t given much time to contemplate the matter though as the tavern’s chaos is quickly spiralling out of control as someone breaks a chair over someone else’s head, and a woman is screaming bloody murder. Jaskier has to duck as another bottle sails through the air and over his head, and he kicks another man out of the way who comes out of nowhere to charge at him.
When Geralt is punched in the nose and blood sprays out is when Jaskier pulls the plug and grabs the witcher by the collar to drag him upstairs and away from the havoc he’s single-handedly responsible for causing.
“I’d really appreciate it if you at least tried returning my body in the same condition as when you got it,” Jaskier growls in Geralt’s ear as he manhandles him out of harm’s way.
Geralt scoffs, his head still tilted back to stop his bleeding nose. He’s already ruined Jaskier’s shirt, the front of the linen stained beyond repair. “Right! I’ll return it with a thrown-out back and a hangover then - no, wait, if my memory doesn’t deceive me, you were still drunk and I was chased out of Oxenfurt by two idiots with knives, so –”
“Oh, shush. Stop your childish bitching and let me…”
Jaskier wraps an arm around Geralt’s waist to steady the drunken man in the staircase as he wobbles threateningly. But, as his fingers curl around the dip of the other man’s hip bone, Geralt lets out a loud hiss that grates on Jaskier’s ears and the scent of iron fills his nose. Jaskier’s fingertips turn wet and tacky, and he’s tended to Geralt’s wounds enough of times to recognise the distinct quality and texture of blood on skin.
He gasps. “Geralt, you’re hurt.”
Geralt fucking shrugs, the movement sloppy and Jaskier thinks maybe his reckless behaviour might not just be the alcohol after all. Blood loss is equally bad, and judging from the amount Jaskier could feel that’s seeped through this shirt and sleeveless jerkin... “It’s only a scratch. I think it happened when that drowner got hold of me earlier.”
“For fuck’s sake, that’s hours ago you absolute dingus.” Jaskier admonishes as he practically picks up Geralt and carries him to their room, kicking open the door and manoeuvring the witcher to sit on the edge of their shared bed.
It’s probably a testament to how badly the witcher is fairing when he doesn’t protest.
Carefully, Jaskier peels back the jerkin to reveal Geralt’s white shirt plastered to his side and coated with blood. Why hadn’t he smelled it before? It reeks now, the scent of iron and something else that’s so distinct wafting into his nose and making him nauseous.
Geralt, as though reading his mind, says with his voice a little slurred, “You wouldn’t have been able to smell it unless you’re more skilled with your nose – and, before you start beating yourself up about it, the mud would have concealed some of the scent too.”
“Oh, you fucking –” So that’s why he had refused to wash earlier, that bastard. He knew. He fucking knew and didn’t do anything about it. As though he’s not human at the moment; as though he's still in his own fucking body.
“Why didn’t you just fucking tell me? I know I’m not very proficient in the art of healing, but I’ve done a pretty okay job at patching you up in the past. All your damn limbs are still attached, as far as I can tell at least. However, I really have to question where your damn head is at, because you’re obviously not using it to think,” he mutters angrily as he carefully peels Geralt’s ruined shirt off his borrowed body to assess the damage. His gentleness is only because the witcher is in his body right now, otherwise he would make this a lot more painful for the man.
“Jaskier –”
“Don’t fucking talk,” Jaskier snaps. He squints at the injuries in the dim light; a couple of gashes and a puncture wound where claws have dug into flesh. It looks worse than it is; a lot of blood, but not dangerously deep. Geralt had gotten lucky, it seems that the drowner had avoided any vital organs or any other… important bits. Or at least so Jaskier thinks, though it’d be easier to tell once he’s cleaned up the blood and muck surrounding the area.
But fuck. The healing process would be awful, and they were more than likely going to scar. And Jaskier who’d been so careful not to get a single blemish on his skin. Fucking inconsiderate witchers.
“Alright, bard,” Geralt interrupts Jaskier’s thoughts, his hand hovering in the air uncertainly by Jaskier’s shoulder as he frowns. He wobbles a little unsteadily at the bed’s edge, almost precariously as though he’s about to drop from a great height and not just a couple of inches to the floor.
“We’re a bit past the silly titles now, are we not, witcher?” Jaskier huffs as he fishes out their healing supplies from their bags and heats the water in the wash basin that has long since gone tepid with igni, noticing with some satisfaction mixed with dread how natural and effortless the use of the signs has become for him.
As he dips a clean washcloth into the water, Jaskier hesitates as he looks to Geralt who is considering Jaskier’s movements with that ever-present frown on his face. While his face doesn’t betray the pain that he’s in, the rest of Jaskier’s body does as it’s curled in on itself, hunched over the wound as though to shield Geralt from any more distress or damage. As Jaskier had moved away to prepare supplies to clean up the wound, the witcher's borrowed hands have dropped to the mattress where they are clutching onto the bed sheets, white-knuckled and tense, though Jaskier isn’t entirely sure if that’s pain or if it’s the alcohol jarring at Geralt’s perception making him do that.
“I’d give you some alcohol to dull the pain, but I think you had quite enough,” Jaskier says, only a little spiteful, intent on not letting the oppressing silence that seems to have befallen them affect him. “But you know what would be really helpful right now? Drowner brains! Oh, if only we still had some of that and not sold it for a couple of measly coppers.”
Geralt, that absolute idiot, laughs as if he just didn’t endanger himself – and Jaskier! – a great deal. It’s cruel and sharp, and makes Jaskier’s hackles rise even more. Because Geralt never laughs; Jaskier highly suspected the man had been dropped on his head as a child and the funny bone had been knocked straight out of his skull, but this is what breaks him? If Jaskier didn’t highly suspect one blow to the nose from him wouldn’t instantly lead to a fast yet gruesome death for the witcher trapped in his human body, he’d probably sock his teeth in.
“If you want to kill me faster, drowner brains are the way to go,” Geralt says, his lips tilting upwards in a mockery of a smile that’s all teeth.
“But you said –”
“That we use it in witcher potions. Surely, I don’t have to explain why that’s a bad idea right now.” That smile drops instantaneously to be replaced by a very unattractive sneer, twisting Jaskier’s features into something that is too reminiscent of his father which is wholly disturbing and has to be remedied at once.
At a lack of anything else to do, Jaskier presses the clean washcloth to Geralt’s bloodied side, which does the trick pretty well as Geralt’s eyes go wide and his whole face twists into a grimace of shock and pain. Jaskier tries not to derive any pleasure from causing the witcher any unnecessary harm, though he has to admit that it feels a little like recompense for permanently scarring his body.
“Then surely I don’t have to explain to you why literally bleeding out is a bad idea right now either,” Jaskier replies in Geralt’s deadpan tone, though he eases up a little as he starts cleaning the wound for blood and dirt. He goes about it as gently as he’s able in Geralt’s body, which requires a lot more effort than it should. It almost feels like it is more of a physical strain to keep himself from causing damage than not, certainly requires a whole lot more mental capacity than it should.
The witcher blows air out of his nose, loud and harsh, though lifts up his arms to accommodate for Jaskier cleaning his wounds. “A pack of drowners used to be child’s play, you know. Easy coin. Wait until nightfall, chop those whoresons down, collect the prize,” Geralt mutters, his anger ill-conceived underneath that lowered voice. “Today I couldn’t even kill one, almost drowned to boot.”
“Geralt, my dear, you know I love you,” Jaskier says as patiently as he’s able as he dumps the washcloth back into its basin and he sits back on his haunches to look up at Geralt where he’s perched on the bed. “But shut up, you’re drunk.”
There’s a tense moment as Geralt stills underneath Jaskier’s scrutiny before he hums. It’s a thoughtful hum, which is never good when it comes from the witcher. Jaskier prepares himself for anything. “I am usually the one to tell you to shut up,” he says eventually and looks down into Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt’s eyes are blue thanks to Triss’ charm; pale oceans and not the golden hue that they should be, the ones that remind Jaskier of molten gold or an eclipse that is dangerous to look at for too long. It’s so wrong, and Jaskier wants to rip the charm off his neck just so he could see the only part of the witcher that still belongs to Geralt.
Jaskier doesn’t dignify Geralt’s musings with an answer. He doesn’t want to. Instead, he fishes out the small jar of disinfectant and sets to work on Geralt’s wounds with it. The skin is bruised surrounding the damage, already an angry purple that is so dark it’s almost black. The injuries themselves are still weeping blood, but the pale skin seems to already be slowly repairing itself. It’s a promising sign.
Carefully, Jaskier presses a couple of fingers coated with the disinfecting salve at the affected area. Geralt lets out another hiss of pain, but Jaskier is prepared this time and the sound doesn’t hurt his ears like it had done last time. He can’t help but notice that his real, human skin is so soft underneath Geralt’s rough fingers, even now when Jaskier is in his 40s, and he feels a little self-satisfaction at that. Treating Geralt’s wounds had become a routine for them at this point, and he quickly settles into the practiced movements learned over years of being best friends with a monster hunter. Though, he can’t help but notice the interaction feels different than usual; almost tender in how light and gentle his touches are, slow and deliberate as to not hurt the delicate bones and flesh underneath his now dangerous hands.
The human existence is so fragile, Jaskier thinks clinically while he works. If Jaskier had been slower than he was during that drowner hunt, Geralt would have died. He can only thank his current witcher mutations for that, and yet, this would never have happened in the first place if he didn’t have them. If they were back in their own bodies, they wouldn’t be in this situation right now; sitting here in this tavern with bloodied clothes and bruised egos, but still had each other in a way they didn’t before. Jaskier is still undecided how he feels about that, as he’s been so out of touch with himself for these past weeks. Still is, his feelings and thoughts are so clinical and unaffected these days that he is worried of losing his humanity in it, as well as himself.
He must have been distracted because suddenly the body underneath his hand is gone as Geralt pulls away and draws in a particularly harsh breath, the hurt evident in his wide eyes. Jaskier only belatedly realises he’d been so lulled into their usual rhythm of these things that he had applied the same pressure he would have if they’d been themselves, which obviously meant that he’d used a lot more force than he should have on Geralt’s now human body.
“Oh fuck. Geralt, I’m sorry! I didn’t realise I –” Jaskier says, withdrawing his hands immediately. He draws a deep breath he doesn’t need, his anxiety only a ghost of a memory of how he’d usually react in this scenario. His body and heart are calm, unaffected. Eventually, he says, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m just trying to help.”
Geralt picks himself up from the bed, wobbles only a little on unsteady feet as he drags Jaskier’s spidery fingers through the dark hair atop of his head. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t want –! This is why I didn’t tell you about it, because you’re still so…” he gestures to Jaskier who hasn’t moved from his position by the bed. “…you! And I just –” the witcher’s mouth snaps shut as though he realises that he’s said too much, that he’s allowed his words and feelings to get away from him in this moment. The entirety of his face darkens and his mouth sets with determination, as if the witcher has to consciously keep himself from saying anything else.
“What does that mean?” Jaskier asks with a frown, getting to his feet cautiously as though he’s approaching a spooked animal – which he might very well be, because Geralt is looking like he might make a dash for the door just to get out of there right then. “Geralt?”
“Fuck off,” Geralt growls and braces himself against the wall for support. His face is carefully schooled into an indifferent mask now, but Jaskier can hear that his breathing is irregular and slightly hitched, Geralt’s pulse jumping underneath the witcher’s borrowed skin.
Taking a tentative sniff of the air, Jaskier can smell something tangy and bitter concealed behind the scent of copper and salty earth, and knows it is Geralt’s emotions seeping through his pores into something he can’t quite translate beyond troubled. Jaskier tilts his head curiously, forgetting his own anger as he asks, “Why are you upset right now?”
“Because!”
“Because, what? Geralt, you have to talk to me, otherwise I don’t –”
“Because I got scared, alright!” The admission is loud and vulnerable, wounded in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with the weeping gashes at Geralt’s side. “I felt so fucking helpless when that drowner pulled me down under. All air left my lungs in a panic before I could even think of preserving it, and I wasn’t even in my right mind to fight the fucking thing that was pulling me down!”
“Listen to me,” Jaskier says carefully, grabbing the witcher by the wrists and absently marvelling at how boney they are in his grip. “You’re human now. That doesn’t make you helpless, though it means you have to manage your expectations. I’m not as strong nor as brave as you are, but I got by and so will you.”
“You don’t understand,” Geralt replies with a shake of his head and extracts his wrists from Jaskier’s grip and clutches his hands tight to his chest. To his erratic heart, Jaskier realises. “I thought I was about to drown and the only thing I could fucking think about was you.”
Jaskier is struck silent for a moment, the weight of Geralt’s words settling in his mind as he tries to wrap his head around them.
Geralt seems undeterred by his silence but also seems unable to meet Jaskier’s gaze as he continues, “I couldn’t bear the thought that I would leave you behind to deal with this on your own.”
The fears of abandonment and loneliness are old and familiar to Jaskier as they start to slowly creeping up from his subconscious, fuelling the anger he’d felt earlier when he’d discovered Geralt’s recklessness and total disregard for his own safety in his very mortal body. He must have gotten lost in his fears and the thought that Geralt might have died today, because there are hands on his face; hands that are long-fingered and surprisingly gentle as they cradle Jaskier’s jaw and strokes along his cheekbones.
“Jaskier.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
The more Jaskier thinks about it, the more he thinks he can understand Geralt’s concern. It’s not just a matter of being stuck physically in Geralt’s body, but everything else it entails too. Everything it entails to be a witcher in a world that detested anyone they deemed the other. It also entailed losing everything Jaskier had once held dear; not only Geralt, but his music and fame, and his ability to feel and love with reckless abandon – even if he’d discovered witchers were capable of those things too, although they had been born into a world who told them such things weren’t meant for them. Such things were no longer meant for him.
“Think you’re welcome here because you killed those drowners? Lookin’ human doesn’t make you any less of a monster than they were, mutant.”
“Please, don’t listen to that arsehole at the bar,” he whispers, leaning into Geralt's touch. It feels important to say this, as he is certain Geralt had overheard those cruel and dehumanising insults, but doesn’t possess the emotional constraint of a witcher to protect him from exactly how much those words hurt currently. “You’re a good man, Geralt.”
“Neither am I a man nor a good person,” Geralt mutters quietly to himself, but he doesn’t sound entirely convinced as he drops his hands away from Jaskier’s face to stare into his palms as if they hold all the answers he seeks. He shakes his head. “But that’s not the point. This isn’t about me, I was just…”
“Just worried you’d go somewhere I couldn’t follow,” Jaskier finishes for him, the words already sitting on his lips from worries he himself shared; worry that Geralt would leave him when he gets too old to travel with him anymore, and he is left alone to die of old age; worry that some monster will one day get one better on Geralt, and he’ll perish like so many other witchers in the past. Jaskier had seen the tree inside Kaer Morhen’s great hall, adorned with dozens of witcher medallions much like the one around his own neck right now. They’d been so many, but now there are only a handful left, and Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll be able to forgive himself if Geralt shares that fate. That is, if they found a way to switch back, because otherwise it’ll be Geralt who’s grown too old and weary, bones brittle and body shrunken in, tired and drained with the inevitable passing of time. But that simply does not bear thinking about, and Jaskier quickly shuts down on the thought and suppresses the feeling bubbling deep in his gut – and he is thankful for the witcher mutations right then, thankful this strict control keeps his usually disorganised, hectic mind in check and out of a pit of despair he usually would take a lot longer to recover from.
Geralt is in possession of that mind now.
“You make it sound so simple when you say it like that,” Geralt says softly with a shake of his head as he pushes past Jaskier to sit back on the bed. He curls in on himself again, one trembling hand hovering over his wounded side protectively as he digs through their bags with the other to fish out clean bandages.
Inwardly, Jaskier curses himself for momentarily having forgotten about the wound and quickly scuttles over to relieve Geralt of the tedious duty of patching himself up by carefully taking the bandages and poultice from his grip. “Here, let me. Please.”
The silence that falls as Jaskier works isn’t uncomfortable, but it is heavy as the both of them seem engulfed in their own little worlds. Jaskier is mindful of his own strength as he applies a generous helping of poultice and wraps the bandages around Geralt’s slim middle, and he tries to the best of ability to not let his thoughts stray from the work at hand in case he accidentally hurts the witcher again. Not that it’s difficult in this body with its hyperfocus, the witcher senses immediately kicking in at the slightest effort from him, even when they’re muted by strange concoctions.
“Jaskier?”
“Hm?”
“Are you…doing okay?”
Jaskier grunts in affirmation, not really paying much attention to anything but the delicate operation he’s currently performing.
There’s a slight huff from Geralt and Jaskier feels his own body’s ribs jostle against his diligent hands. Looking up, he sees Geralt is wearing this arduous expression on his face. The witcher waves him off when he catches him looking. “It’s nothing. I just had a taste of what it must feel like talking to me most of the time, is all.”
Jaskier frowns and looks back down to the bandages. Something about this conversation feels like it’s been imminent for the longest time, but he can’t put his finger on why. “Why do you ask?”
For a brief moment, Geralt seems to hesitate as he chews on his bottom lip. The display of uncertainty and vulnerability is a testament to how the alcohol is still coursing through his system, and Geralt must be realising how it’s making him loose-lipped. but is debating whether or not to allow the liquid courage to dictate his words. Eventually, he asks, “Do you think I’m selfish?”
Jaskier, who has never been comfortable with sincerity his entire life and particularly not from Geralt no matter how much he might be secretly craving it, finds himself lacing every word with sarcasm so it’s practically dripping with it. “Sure, witcher. In fact, I think you’ve got your head shoved so far up a donkey’s arsehole that you wouldn’t know if I–”
Geralt reaches out and places his hands on Jaskier’s broad shoulders; the heat of them seeps through Jaskier’s shirt, though it’s the way his blunt nails are digging into the flesh underneath that effectively stops Jaskier in his tracks. Geralt's glassy eyes search his, and Jaskier imagines that he sees those irises flash gold even through the blue glamour. “I’m being serious,” he admonishes, though there’s no bite behind his words. “Your body has made me… much more introspective, emotionally. It’s blinded me with my own selfish needs and feelings – and it has been overwhelming, and new and strange. At times, it's downright terrifying and devastating. Today, you saved me from myself, because for a slight second as the drowner pulled me down I thought that I might just let it, but then you appeared and pulled me back up, and I felt so selfish.”
He sighs, but Jaskier waits with bated breath, scared that he might distract Geralt from the weight that seems to be resting so heavy on his heart – crushing him, squeezing out his doubts and worries and fears, a little by little.
“I think I can understand your songs now, a little better at least. It’s like a balm for you, isn’t it? I know you’ve told me before, the need for release, but I didn’t understand how consuming these feelings can be if you try to just suppress and forget about them. They eat away at your soul, but...” Geralt tilts his head and leans a little closer to Jaskier, so their faces are only inches apart. “But they can also be beautiful and magical in a way chaos could never replicate, like the peaceful eye of a storm that threatens to take down entire villages.”
“Geralt –”
“I realise that I’ve taken that from you – robbed you of that. Witchers don’t feel, at least not like this.” Geralt shakes his head and drops his gaze, Jaskier’s dark hair shielding those troubled eyes from view. “So, I worry. Worry what my mutations are doing to you, if your feelings are doing this to me. That, because of this experience, you’re losing an important part of who you are because my body feels so little, even when you try to fight it. That’s why I’m asking: are you doing okay?”
Jaskier blinks uncomprehendingly up at the witcher, rendered speechless by Geralt’s uncharacteristic monologue. He knows the man cares a lot, despite all odds that his mutations have against him, but he hadn’t expected this conversation and certainly not tonight, yet here they are. “I – I’m doing okay, I suppose. Despite the circumstances,” he says. He can tell his face – Geralt’s face – grimaces as a vague and complicated feeling wiggles in his chest and underneath the shackles keeping all his emotions from soaring up to cloud his judgement. He’s not used to being on this end of the conversation with Geralt on the other, where he is the one urged to talk about how he’s feeling. He’s good at using his words, but not about this, which is why he composes and sings, putting all his emotions into songs and poetry.
Striking blue meets Jaskier’s gaze again as Geralt tilts his head back up to look at him with a frown. “Don’t you miss it?”
“I do,” Jaskier insists, though it lacks sincerity. He clears his throat, wanting to pace or to fidget, but Geralt’s hulking body that he's puppeteering remains deathly still where he’s kneeling in front of his own body that is sitting perched on the bed, staring at him expectantly. “Deep in my heart, I know I do. Just like I know I miss my music, and the comfort and peace it brings me. Yet, at the same time, how am I to tell? Just like I tell you that I am okay, without actually knowing if I truly am or not. However, I don’t want you to blame yourself for something you have no control over. Neither you nor I asked for this to happen, my dear heart, but we are unfortunately left to deal with the consequences the best we can either way.”
The silence that follows is deafening to Jaskier, but it’s easy to sit back and let the room’s quietness wash over him; he doesn’t find it uncomfortable like he normally would and he doesn’t feel the need to fill it with mindless chatter.
His words ring true though as he sees Geralt’s jaw is working furiously, but Jaskier can’t tell if the witcher is fighting back words he considers meaningless or struggling to form the words he wants to in order to fill silence he must be finding oppressing in Jaskier’s body. Eventually, he lets out a large gush of breath like a deflating balloon. “I realise there’s nothing I can say that’ll offer you any comfort.”
“Then it’s a good thing my comfort is not your responsibility,” Jaskier says with finality as he reaches out and secures the clean bandages wrapped around Geralt’s waist.
For a moment, that seems to be it. If they’d been themselves, it would have been, but Geralt seems incapable of his characteristic stoic reticence while inhabiting a bard’s body.
“How would you feel if I gave it a try?” At Jaskier’s inquiring look, he elaborates with only a little embarrassment infused into his voice, “Your music. Considering how adept you’ve become with my swords, it’s only fair that I at least try my hands at your craft. I might not be good enough to perform, but maybe you could at least derive some enjoyment from it.”
If he’d been himself, Jaskier's heart would have melted into a hopeless puddle at the soles of his feet. Geralt’s embarrassment aside, the thoughtfulness is rare and sweet, and Jaskier can’t help but wonder if he can thank Cirilla for this growth of Geralt’s person. He briefly considers declining the offer to save Geralt from the humiliation, but knows the witcher is only wanting to give them both a little semblance of normalcy and comfort in the otherwise confusing life they now lead.
“Sure,” he says, with a smile as he enjoys how Geralt’s voice comes out in a gruff purr as though he’s an overgrown cat. “I’d like that.”
The reserved tilt of Geralt’s lips is merely a ghost of a real smile, but so wholly the witcher that Jaskier wants to pull the man into his arms and kiss him stupid until the sun sets on the horizon. The only thing stopping him is the drowner wound currently etched into Geralt’s side and the glassy quality to the man’s eyes that indicates it’s time for him to sleep off the alcohol still coursing through his human veins.
As if on cue, Geralt mutters, “I feel lightheaded.”
Jaskier reaches up and touches the other man’s cheek, the smile on his face turning tender when Geralt leans into the touch. “Speaking from experience, excessive alcohol consumption and blood loss will do that to you.”
“Being human is stupid.”
Despite himself, Geralt’s statement draws an ugly, loud snort out of Jaskier who can’t help but silently enjoy this slightly disgruntled, drunken Geralt now that they’ve evaded the danger of him bleeding out. “It could be worse,” he chuckles as he gets to his feet to snuff out the few candles still lightening up their otherwise dark room.
“How so?” Geralt asks with a yawn, allowing Jaskier to usher him over to the other side of the bed and under the blankets. His eyes are already closing as Jaskier too crawls underneath the blankets. “Are you going to tell me that it’d be worse to switch with Yennefer?”
“She is a witch, in every meaning of the word,” Jaskier hums in agreement as he pulls the witcher close to his chest, mindful of Geralt’s still fresh wounds. “You could have waved your cock farewell.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“She would.”
Whatever Geralt’s response would have been to that is left a mystery as soft and steady breaths fill the room, the witcher’s exhaustion finally catching up to him. Gently, carefully, he brushes a stray piece of dark hair away from Geralt’s forehead as he stares down at his own resting face.
Geralt had scared him today. Scared him enough to make him feel anger and fear despite the mutations pinning him and his emotions down. Geralt had been scared too, shook to his core in a way Jaskier had never seen the other man before. They’d both come face to face with Jaskier’s own mortality, in a way neither of them had been prepared for and the urgency in finding the curse’s cure weighs even heavier on Jaskier’s mind.
Jaskier gets no rest that night as his mind wanders listlessly for answers he does not have.