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Jaskier had never before realised how terrifying boots could be. And here he stood, staring at the grime and dust on the edges of one as it rose before him like a massive stone wall, terrifying and concrete in its stature. And when it moved, he yelped and crouched, ducking with his arms above his head as if that would offer any decent form of protection.
The motions were scary too - even worse, really, because it seemed that every one could spell injury, by being squashed or kicked about. The shadow of the foot shifted over him like a storm cloud obscuring the sun, and Jaskier curled in tighter on himself, hoping by chance that being even smaller would reduce the odds of getting crushed as Geralt fought off the highway gremlin. While these creatures were usually small and impish, light on their feet and quick to steal one’s coin, right now it seemed like a hulking monstrosity capable of tearing apart entire villages.
That is, if villages had been shrunk down to a few inches tall, as Jaskier had been after eating a Mengurangkan berry. Really, damn those berries, and damn sleeping in far too late and missing breakfast. The Bard vowed, then and there as the ground shook beneath him and he retreated to hide under the awning created by his now massive, fallen lute case, that he would always be awake before Geralt.
“I am never sleeping in again, no sir, you hear that, you sexy Witcher!?” Jaskier cried, surprised that Geralt briefly turned his head. Ah, right. Witcher hearing. “You can hold me to that! No more late mornings! I am eating breakfast at the normal time!”
“That means no more late nights then, Bard. I don’t like that.” Geralt huffed as he finally pierced the leathery stomach of the chunky gremlin, earning a wailing screech that caused the shrunken Bard to quickly cover his tiny, sensitive ears with his proportionately tiny hands.
The Witcher shook the beast from the edge of the sword and ran the blade over his clothed thigh, cleaning it before it was stowed back over his shoulder in its sheath. With not more than a grunt, he faced his companion, squinting at the ground before pinpointing his figure.
He couldn’t be more than six inches tall, now. If it weren’t the most damned inconvenient thing that could have happened, borne out of Jaskier’s own obliviousness, Geralt almost would have found it worth teasing him for. But now as the adrenaline high began its slow, laborious task of dripping from his system, the Witcher intended not to make this an excusable incident.
He crouched by the lute case, tilting his head to better see the hiding figure, and let out a disappointed exhale, a mere ‘hm’. Jaskier peeked out at him.
“Come out here, Jaskier. It’s safe now.” The tactic was partially employed out of intent to lure him from his hiding place, to scold him for eating that fucking berry; so, the Witcher was surprised when the tiny Bard ran forward, as well as his little legs would allow him to over the cracked, dirt path, and immediately clambered atop his boot to cling to the buckle strap in place there.
Geralt blinked down at him. Alright. That was cute.
“Geralt of Rivia, I do not care by what accident I was brought here, but you will not leave me alone like that, do you understand?” Jaskier’s voice contained no less of the panicked, scolding tone than it normally did when in this state, and it was a blessing that Geralt’s hearing was as strong as it was. The normal human ear would likely not be able to pick up the softness of the Bard’s miniscule vocal chords now.
“It was your fault for eating that Mengurangkan berry, Jaskier, you should have been able to tell…” Even as he was teasing, Geralt saw how his tiny Bard clasped his hands over his ears and winced at his words. He shook his head – in disbelief and yet in fond exasperation.
Ah, right. Tiny, sensitive ears, now. Geralt softened his voice, speaking in a whisper that still rumbled like thunder to his shortened friend. “The effects will wear off in a day at the least, at most a week. You will have to live with the consequences of your inattentiveness until then.”
“That’s hardly fair!” Jaskier complained, taking his hands from beside his head and once again holding fast to what he could cling to on his Witcher’s boot. “How was I supposed to be paying attention to what was in my hand when you were actually talking for once? It’s not my fault that you’re always in a good mood the morning after, oh no sir it is not, although I do technically have a bit of a hand in the fact that… Ah, that’s aside from my point! It’s also not really my fault that I slept in! That was all you!” He stepped back, tiny feet making faint indentations of feeling atop Geralt’s shoe.
Geralt tilted his head, a small smirk pulling at his lips. “All of your whining is supposed to achieve what, exactly?”
Jaskier’s expression dropped pleadingly. “You know what.” He gulped, silently due to his new size. “Please don’t make me walk, Geralt.”
The Witcher stared back with flat, unreadable golden eyes. Jaskier waited for a response. Waited until he had to say something more.
“Please don’t leave my lute here, either.”
Still, nothing.
“Geralt!”
“Hm?”
His shin was met with a tiny punch, barely even registering through the thick material of the boot that covered it, and one that wouldn’t even have an effect had Jaskier been his normal six-foot stature rather than a small six inches. The ridiculousness of it all stirred mirth in Geralt’s chest, and for the first time in a long while, he bit his lip to contain a chuckle. His strong brows furrowed upwards towards the middle to betray his humorous strain.
Jaskier was affronted, hands going to his hips and chest puffing out with irritation like some angry little sparrow. “Excuse me! How is it that you never ever laugh when I tell real jokes, real stories, when we mock stupid townspeople and whatnot, and yet the minute that something dreadful like this happens to me, you’re suddenly giggling like a - stop that!” He gasped when Geralt could no longer fight it, and the warm waves of laughter rolled out of him in simple waves. “Geralt!”
“For someone who studied at Oxenfurt, I’m surprised you didn’t pay attention to what was in your hand.”
“You know I didn’t just study - hey.”
“What?” The Witcher replied innocently, looking about them on the trail. It would take the rest of the day to get to the next inn, and that was only if they were lucky enough to make it that far. He would have no time to wait for this little Bard to catch up, even if he wanted to make him walk. And the risk of losing him along the way was far too high. Even Geralt wouldn’t consider being that mean.
He was careful not to crush the Bard’s teeny form as he scooped him up easily in one hand, ignoring his alarmed sputters of protest. Geralt paused for a moment, peering at him as if he didn’t really know what to do, before placing Jaskier on his shoulder. “Hold on. You might die if you fall. And let me know if you need something.”
“Geralt. Put me down, I take it back. I don’t like this.” Jaskier’s fists found their way around some loose strands of hair, holding onto them like a lifeline.
“I’m not letting you walk. You’ll die.”
“Don’t say that so grimly!”
“Please don’t yell right next to my ear, I can hear you just fine.”
“Right, sorry, sorry, jeez… And the lute?”
“Got it. And if you don’t quit yelling, I’m putting you in it.”
~
“The fuck did you say to me, Witcher?”
Geralt lifted his gaze without turning his head, hair still falling neatly to obscure the small Bard sitting on his shoulder. His golden stare hardened defensively when he looked at the scrawny, scruffy man before him. “I said nothing to you.”
“No, I heard you, right I did! I heard you, cur. You done called me a half-foot fool, did you?” The man leaned in and snatched up the front of his garb, tugging the Witcher forward until he faced him entirely. “You’re gonna apologise for that, ain’t ya?”
Geralt felt the stir of his collar as Jaskier, the one to which he had said those words, moved behind him to hide in his snowy white hair. He felt that all-too familiar sense of protectiveness boil up in his chest, subtle but unmistakable as it made its presence known at any threat to the Bard; it came even when he was at his ordinary build and height, let alone when he was less than a foot tall, and Geralt clenched one fist in his lap while the other rested calmly atop the table.
“Who said I was talking to you? Wouldn’t waste my time on it.” Geralt said flatly, evenly, almost lamely.
“Wouldn’t waste your time on – alright, that’s it, you’re in for it, you ugly bastard!”
“Who is he calling an ugly bastard? Take a look in the -” Jaskier started to say quietly to Geralt with a condescending smirk on his lips, when suddenly he shouted in surprise as the Witcher was pulled to his feet by the scruffy villager; the man was seemingly stronger than he appeared, likely from long hours of labour, and he managed to pull Geralt to his feet by the edges of his cuirass.
Geralt grunted, not entirely expecting the motion either, but he quickly sensed – by smell, mostly, as his eyes were fixed on the man in front of him – the growing hostility in the room. Men from the bar began to rise to their feet, and before Geralt could even think to react on anything other than instinct, a fist was being thrown directly towards his jaw.
His hair moved as he ducked out of the way, swishing elegantly with the motion of his head and shoulders; adrenaline rushed into his veins and dulled his registering of the faint tug at the back of his collar. Geralt’s feet moved with ease, dodging away from his clumsy attacker, but driving him towards the center of the tavern where others awaited.
A bar fight it would be, then.
As perceptive as he was, Geralt could get caught up in what he was doing at times; especially when it included nearly a dozen people trying to topple him at once. Because of this, he took no notice to the floundering Jaskier that had fallen into his ale.
The mug was much larger than they usually were, which was common once their travels began to lead them closer to the southern part of the continent, in areas where alcohol production was a rich process. But right now, when Jaskier had been bracing for his small body to collide with the table after teetering and falling from Geralt’s shoulder, instead he had been met with an anticlimactic sploosh into the offensively large drink.
As the Witcher fought off dozens of piss-angry villagers, the Bard struggled to keep his head above the froth, sputtering every time he dipped underneath the foamy layers and accidentally inhaled a concentration of alcohol that would surely do his small proportions unwanted justice in all but a matter of minutes.
In the background, Geralt threw off another one of the brawlers, pulling the man over his shoulder to a crashing collision with the surface of a table, only for another one to be replaced on his back. It seemed as though these villagers were joining into the fray purely for something to do, and Jaskier cursed the whole thing as his hands slipped from the tin lip of the mug and he once again plunged into the bubbly depths of the brew.
A sound akin only to a roar was emitted when a hulking man – even taller than Geralt himself, and far wider – took the center of the conflict, using his entire force to simply hurl himself at the Witcher. With a deft motion, Geralt managed to clothesline himself onto the man’s arm, swinging up and throwing his leg back before crashing it down onto the man’s face, sending him reeling backwards and landing the pair on the floor with a thunderous boom. Geralt, in a crouched position as if he had simply taken a knee, stood and glared about in case a new assault was coming.
Upon seeing the man on the floor knocked out cold, the energy from the spacious tavern was sucked dry. The rest of the bargoers looked between each other, shifting their weight on the balls of their feet and clenching their fists with apprehensive motions. But when the man who had started this ordeal took a turn to spit at the Witcher’s feet, that seemed to be the conclusion of the confrontation. The men turned back to their tables and chairs, leaving the unconscious giant in the center of the room, and Geralt was left alone.
It was only as the high from the fight calmed down that he realised something was missing. Well - someone. And he didn’t know whether to be relieved or not that the little Bard had not been on his shoulder for the entirety of the grapple; but when he did not see him at first glance, that was some cause for concern.
His gaze swept over the floor, over the body of the unconscious man, around the lute case beside their table in the corner… If Jaskier were smart, he would have retreated there. Geralt couldn’t find him for a moment, before he saw a very small brunette head peek out from the rim of his mug.
A growl formed in his throat, but whether it was lingering protectiveness or newfound irritation, or even a form of relief, he did not know. Geralt just hunched his shoulders and marched over to the table, clearly unhappy with the turn of events and even more incensed than he had been earlier in the day. “Why did you think it would be smart to dunk yourself into my ale?”
Jaskier’s eyes widened, mouth opening in a silent, protesting gasp before he actually spoke. “You think I meant to jump in here? Your horsing around threw me in, Geralt, I almost drowned!” He did look rather shaky, completely soaked through and entirely displeased. “Please get me out, will you, my big, strong, handsome Witcher who can’t keep his meaty hands out of a fight?” Jaskier reached one little hand out for him.
“They started it.” Geralt grumbled as he gently pinched the Bard around the torso and lifted him from the drink, taking a handkerchief – one that Jaskier had gifted him, insisting upon it really – out of his back pocket and wrapping his tiny companion in it like a blanket.
“I know that, my dear, I do. No less, that was really, really uncalled for. I am very upset at this moment.” Jaskier bundled himself further in the kerchief and pouted, attempting to dry his hair with a few clothed tussles.
Geralt’s lips turned upwards in a slight smile, but there was a weariness behind it that made his Bard gush. “Aww, are you tired of all the people? Really playing into the role of antisocial edgy Witcher-man, you know? Come along, let us be rid of this place.”
“I could leave you here if you keep that tone up.”
“Geralt, no!” Jaskier clung to his thumb. “That is not funny, no, not at all! Why would you even – that is not –” He sputtered a short huff before sighing, long and done. “Can we just go? You’re the one that’s got all the attitude anyways – hey, do not roll your eyes at me!”
~
“I’m going to crush you if you lie there.”
“Then don’t.” Jaskier concluded easily as he snuggled beside Geralt on their bed, not even making an dimple on the solid excuse for a mattress. “Just, be still or something. I want to be next to you though, it shouldn’t matter that I’m smaller now.”
Geralt sighed softly, what could even be taken as warmly, and gently plucked Jaskier from where he was sat upon the sheet, instead plopping him down on the pillow beside his head. “This works.” The tiny Bard was now only inches from his face, and Geralt took the opportunity to get as comfortable as his sore muscles would allow, allowing his head to rest and the fluff of the feather pillow to obscure half of his vision.
“Yeah.” Jaskier nodded in agreement, but there was something forlorn about his tone that made Geralt frown. “This is fine.”
“I already said you’ll return to full-size within a day, the end of the week at most.”
“That’s not what I’m implying though, is it? I miss getting to hold you, Geralt. Can you believe that? No, you probably can’t get it through that oh-so-handsome but oh-so-thick head of yours, woe is the fact that I must continue to shower you with compliments for you to understand… It’s only been a day and I miss getting to put my arms around you.” Jaskier pouted adorably, but the sadness in his eyes was nothing to tease about.
Geralt really did frown, now. “I don’t let you fondle me during daylight hours anyways. Not when there’s people around.”
“First thing, “hugging” and “fondling” are two very different things, as I would like to have you know. As I would think you would know. Anyways.” He sat as heavily as his light body would now allow. “Secondly, exactly, and now, when it would normally be my designated time for love and affection and sweet cuddles, I can’t even get that!”
“There’s not much I can do about that, Jaskier, I’m…” And Geralt paused, as he realised he meant the words coming out of his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“That I was a fool and ate a strange berry. Didn’t think you’d be sorry for that one, you griped and moaned about it enough on our trip here.”
“No.” Geralt propped himself up only a little, hoping his gaze wasn’t so harsh that it was frightening, only determined. Then again, those displays usually came hand-in-hand. “I only mean… I’m sorry that you have to deal with things like this. With me.”
If he were in Novigrad, or really, gods, anywhere else, he would have enough coin for himself to eat real food. He’d be able to sleep in as late as he wanted, he’d have a comfortable bed and new boots whenever he needed them. He’d have audiences bowing at his feet who weren’t grovely folk who all too often had ill intentions. He wouldn’t have to worry about being shrunk down to six inches tall, let alone worry about drowning in ale and being literally crushed in a bed with his lover.
And then, he’d likely have a more affectionate lover, too.
Geralt’s frown deepened.
“Hey, stop that. You’re brooding again.” Jaskier scooted closer on the pillow, causing Geralt to have to cross his eyes to see him. “What are you thinking about?”
The Witcher remained silent for a moment. His mood dampened, easy words – well, words were never easy for him like this – would not come. “It’s… frustrating.” He swallowed, directing his eyes away.
He felt a small hand on his nose. “It’s alright. I complain, Geralt, you know that. It’s what I do. But in the end, I’m still here, aren’t I? I tell you time and time again, I chose this. It doesn’t matter what happens to me. I’m with you, and that, along with all that comes with it, only makes for excellent stories. I don’t want to be an empty book. And even if I stayed in Novigrad, or travelled on my own, I’d be a textbook. I’d be a description of regions and places with no flavour. I want to be a storybook, Geralt. And you give me that.”
The Witcher paused, unsure of how to respond. He never knew what to say when Jaskier showered him with soft poems and sweet words. He just sat and listened. He loved to listen, whether it showed or not.
He felt the slightest pressure on his skin, and only realised by the motion on the pillow beside him that the tiny Bard had leaned forward and kissed his forehead. That earned a subtle, peaceful smile.
“Must be a scary book.” Geralt muttered, feeling unsure about his understanding, but in turn feeling a strange need to contribute. An impulse he often got in these late night conversations. He never fully understood the metaphors Jaskier threw at him, but he wanted to understand. He did his best, always.
“And a funny one.” The Bard chuckled quietly, gathering up the handkerchief behind him that would serve as his blanket, as if for emphasis. “And a lovely one, a tale of romance and tragedy and all things… all things human. Well… all things beautiful.”
“I’m not human.”
“That’s why I corrected myself. You may not be human, but you are very much a part of all things beautiful, my love.” And he had never said something so surely.
He was a fool in practice, but never in theory. Geralt had learned that early on, and spent every day accepting it more wholeheartedly than before. Jaskier spoke with confidence, because he meant each word he said. He may be ditzy, but damnit if he was not beautiful as well.
Geralt reached up and gently cupped his hand around Jaskier, holding him as close as he could while still being careful. The last thing he wanted was to hurt him, but now he doubted that even his deepest instinct would allow him to do it. If anything, those buried reactions, those for defense and for fighting, would do all they could to keep his Bard safe.
“So are you.” He was embarrassed to say it aloud, but he meant it. “Beautiful.”
~
The Witcher wasn’t entirely sure how Jaskier managed to crawl out of the lute that was strapped securely to Roach’s croup, but some hours after they left the tavern, surely enough, the Bard had found his way to be comfortably seated on the ridge of his leather cuirass, just aside his pectoral. Geralt had to hold his arm up in a sort of odd way, elbow jutting out slightly, just to be sure that he did not pinch him. It was alright, though. He could bear it for the day.
Afterall, Jaskier should be back to his ordinary size soon.
“What if it doesn’t happen naturally?” Jaskier mused, holding onto the studded edge of the leather to look up at Geralt without leaning too far back. “What if there’s actually a spell or something we had to do? Can you stand another day of me being like this? Oh, oh dear, Geralt, can I stand it?”
“If you wait patiently, it will come about faster.” That was a lie, Geralt did not know how long it would take for Jaskier to be restored. Or if it would happen gradually, or all at once. Really, he’d never had to experience the consequences of a minimizing Mengurangkan berry before. He’d never been aloof enough – or desperate enough, as sometimes they could be used as a means of escape – to try one.
Jaskier was quiet for a moment. “You know, maybe I’ll keep talking then. This has been kindof nice, being carried around and coddled by you and whatnot. And my feet feel amazing, if I must add! No new sores and blisters to count.” He kicked lightly, effectively prodding the inside of Geralt’s armour by poking at his black cotton undershirt.
“There was definitely not a spell. You’ll be normal by evening.” Gods, Geralt hoped he would be. There was something more beyond the annoyance, a sort of loneliness brought on by not being able to see Jaskier walking by his side. An absence brought on by not being able to poke fun and be too harsh without feeling worse for it, when he was so helpless.
Jaskier only smirked, something felt more in his words than what was actually observed. “Well, good then, because I expect to have lots of love and affection for my welcome home, you hear me Witcher? I know you’ve missed me. I can read you like a book.”
“Like that storybook you talked about being?”
“No, no my love. We are the storybook, you make me the book, when you are the story.”
Geralt was forced to move his arm, caught off-guard when Jaskier began to scale his armour, to his shoulder and finally to stand while holding onto his hair. He began to turn his head to give him a questioning look, when he suddenly thought of the danger Jaskier would be in if he lost his balance and fell down, off of Geralt and Roach and to the ground itself. He held still.
“And I’m afraid, my dear Witcher, that you might not be able to read it as well as you think. I can certainly take up the task of reading it to you.” With those breathy words, even in his quiet voice, Jaskier leaned in and touched a light kiss to Geralt’s cheek.
And the next thing the Witcher felt was a shocking amount of weight on his shoulder, along with his arse leaving the saddle of the horse. The world tipped sideways, he heard Jaskier yelp in his own volume of voice, and then just as suddenly, there was the ground. It collided hard with his shoulder, dust springing up around where he fell, and he groaned sharply with the unforgiving contact.
Roach stopped walking a few paces ahead, turning her neck to look back at them almost judgmentally. She tossed her mane, gesturing for the Witcher to look behind him.
Jaskier was at his full height, all six feet of muscle and lank, and he coughed as he lifted his face from the path, cheek smeared with dirt. Huh. So the effects did reverse instantaneously.
The Bard’s blue eyes met Geralt’s stare for a moment, processing what all had happened, before he suddenly burst into bright, lovely laughter. “There was a spell behind it, then!”
Geralt narrowed his eyes, pushing himself up and dusting his clothing off. “What?”
“Hear me out, Geralt, my love, my muse, just hear me out.” Jaskier scrambled to his own feet less gracefully, belabored even more by the adjustments he had to make to his regular proportions. “It was true love’s kiss. Now isn’t that a lovely story? Forced to a helpless state, defended by my precious, black-clad brooding lover, and suddenly restored to my normal stature by something as simple as a sweet kiss on the cheek, in the heart of an ordinary conversation? How mundane, yet how genuine and true!”
The Witcher’s response came out in a slow deadpan as he made logic of that mess of an explanation thrown at him. “But… you’re always helpless.”
He did not expect the delighted gasp earned from that statement. “Which means it happens all the time! Oh, Geralt you have hit it on the nose right there, see, I told you that I strive to live a storybook life and you’ve only proven it right there! Come here, let me give you a real kiss, my wonderful hero!”
“We should get moving. Roach is impatient.”
“She’ll be fine, won’t you girl?” A pause as the mare snorted and stamped her hooves. “Oh – just a moment then, jeez. C’mere.” With no restraint left in his actions, Jaskier hooked his hands on the sides of the Witcher’s chest piece and tugged him close for an uncoordinated kiss, one he only grinned in to like an idiot, clashing their teeth together messily before they settled into a calmer embrace.
And even still, Jaskier was the first to pull away. Geralt’s lips almost chased after the Bard’s as he did, but he tried to refrain. They would reach a place to camp or a new town soon enough, he could wait another day. Another day. Waiting wasn’t fun.
“Hm. You’re walking again.” Geralt smirked as Jaskier’s smug smile deflated into a gasp, mock-offended.
“Now that – I didn’t even get to enjoy it when I had the chance! That is not alright, Geralt, come now! Roach, girl can I sit behind Geralt, the love of my life?”
Roach snorted around her bit, impatient as always.
“That means no.”
“Oh, how do you even – Geralt, wait!”
Everything was back to routine, then, if not with a little more insight, a little more love than before. The affections only multiplied with every incident, every mishap, every task whether intentional or not. This remained their normal, and it was a perfect series of stories to be told to fill the book Jaskier insisted their days were scribing.